The Overlooked
by ChristineX
Summary: Snape discovers the existence of a magically gifted young woman who never received an invitation to Hogwarts. But as the final confrontation with Voldemort approaches, can Snape protect her from those around her...including himself? Epilogue DH spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

Quick author's note: I'm new to HP fiction, but not fanfic in general -- this will be my eleventh story on ff.n (and I've even finished more than half of them!). I'm trying to be as close to the books as possible, but my Snape is definitely influenced by the amazing Alan Rickman (how could he not be?). The time frame for this story is the summer between OotP and HBP...there may be some HBP spoilers, so be forewarned!

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One

Professor Severus Snape's students would probably be astonished to discover that he had far more familiarity with the world of Muggles than he ever let on. That his own father had been a Muggle was a carefully guarded secret known to a rare few, but only Professor Albus Dumbledore knew exactly how Snape often spent the free hours of the summer holidays at Hogwarts. Instead of remaining on the grounds and reveling in the quiet and solitude of a school entirely free of students, he sometimes went forth into Muggle society, often ranging as far afield as Manchester. If questioned as to the reason for these furtive day trips, he no doubt would have snapped, "Know thy enemy," but his motivations were somewhat more complex than that. In a small cemetery not far from the banks of the River Mersey his mother rested, and he would often make a pilgrimage there, not bothering to lay flowers on her grave, but merely standing by the plain gray headstone and staring out at the low rolling contours of the hills that stretched away to the south of the city.

It was after one of these side trips that he found himself in a small secondhand bookstore located just off Oldham Street. Occasionally he would amuse himself by entering a library or bookstore and perusing the titles that involved witchcraft or magic or the psychic arts. The complete lack of anything approaching the actual truth in any of these tomes provided a diversion that reinforced both his sense of superiority to the Muggles around him and a feeling of mild amazement that they'd actually been able to accomplish anything as advanced as space travel or organ transplants.

He had entered the bookstore an hour or so past noon, and it seemed deserted, save for a bored-looking Muggle girl who sat behind the counter, thumbing through some sort of tabloid and idly twirling a lock of violently fuchsia hair. The girl gave him a brief wary look, then returned her attention to the magazine. Probably his own students would have had to look twice to recognize him; unlike other members of the wizarding community, Snape knew how to dress in unobtrusive Muggle clothing when necessary. He could not leave off his beloved black, but when worn as a simple collared shirt over a pair of dress pants and plain black oxfords, it did not merit a second glance.

The bookstore had the pleasantly musty smell of old paper that seemed to be universal to libraries and bookshops the world over, whether wizard or Muggle. Snape moved toward the back of the store, where the sort of arcane material he sought normally would be located. As he passed a section devoted to world history -- _Muggle_ world history, he immediately thought, since what he thought of as _real_ history would of course not be recorded in any of those books -- he saw a young woman standing in one of the aisles, staring up at the top shelf. She apparently didn't see him; her attention seemed to be focused on a book that was out of her reach.

He thought perhaps he might offer to fetch it for her, since no step stool was in evidence, but before he could even open his mouth to speak, the young woman reached out toward the book in question and made an odd flexing movement with her fingers. The volume sailed effortlessly off the shelf and dropped into her waiting hand, and she smiled just a bit before tucking it under her arm and moving a little farther down the aisle, obviously in search of something else.

Eyes widening slightly, Snape sidled down to the next bank of bookshelves and slipped in between them. The shelves were the metal sort that didn't have solid backs, so he could just barely see the outline of her profile as she bent her head over the book she held. His first thought had been that of course she was simply a young witch doing a bit of slumming just as he was, but she didn't look familiar. He thought she couldn't be much more than twenty-five, which meant that if she were from anywhere around here she would have attended Hogwarts and taken Potions classes.

With a frown, Snape tried to focus on her features through the narrow opening the bookshelves afforded. Her reddish-brown hair was long but drawn back carelessly into a dark plastic clasp, her features regular and actually quite pretty. Not beautiful, perhaps, but certainly a girl who would make a person take a second look -- even the supercilious Potions master of Hogwarts. And definitely a girl he would remember, though he was now sure he had never seen her before.

Which didn't necessarily mean anything. Hogwarts wasn't the only school of wizardry in the world; perhaps she was visiting from the Continent or America. Snape lifted a book at random from the shelves and opened it, pretending to scan its contents but instead continuing to study from underneath half-lowered lids the young woman who presented such a conundrum. The title of the book she held was hidden by the shelving that separated her from Snape, but after a few seconds she frowned, shook her head, and replaced the volume on its shelf. Then she stepped out toward the entrance of the shop and disappeared from sight, but her voice came clearly to him as she paused at the front counter, presumably to pay for the one book she'd gotten down from the shelf through sheer force of will...or magic.

"Just this one today, Emily," she said. Her voice was pretty, clear and light, but the accent was unmistakable north of England. If she wasn't from Manchester proper, then she couldn't have been raised too far away. So much for the the thought that she might be visiting here from some other part of the world.

"Right," said the shop girl. A small silence followed, punctuated by the ringing of the cash register. "Goin' by Topham's tonight?"

"I don't think so," came the reply. "I've got two clients coming in after seven. You have fun, then."

"Always," the shop girl answered.

Then the mysterious young woman said, "I'll see you later," and Snape heard the front door open and then shut with a faint ringing of the string of bells that hung from the handle.

Damn. For some reason, he felt an overwhelming urge to follow her, to see where she was going. That display of raw ability had unnerved him; she didn't seem to fit into any of the rules about the wizarding world that he knew, and he suddenly needed to know more. Moving purposefully, he strode toward the door, only to be halted by the shop girl's sudden offended rebuke.

"Hey, you!" she called out. "You tryin' to rob me?"

Brought slightly off balance by the girl's accusing tone, he paused, then realized he still held the book he had taken down off the shelf. "Of course not," he replied. "I decided I don't want it."

"Well then, give it here," said the girl, and he handed it to her. She lifted an over-plucked eyebrow at him, but he couldn't waste any more time on her. For all he knew his quarry had already gone out of range.

He hurried out the door of the shop and was gratified to see that the young woman he sought was still within eyeshot, although she was just about to turn down Oldham Street. Quickening his pace, he managed to get to the corner in time to see her head off to the right. Luckily, since it was mid-afternoon the streets weren't quite as crowded as they would be in few hours, when all the Muggles who spent their days locked up in offices and shops would flood the town's thoroughfares in search of dining and entertainment. But he still had to struggle to keep her in view while hanging back far enough so that she wouldn't notice the tall, black-clad man who followed along twenty or so paces behind her.

She walked quickly, a girl of middle height in the sort of drab, nondescript clothing that Muggles these days seemed to favor: faded jeans, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, flat-heeled brown shoes. From the back only her hair distinguished her, that fall of rich mahogany which reached almost to her waist. Once she paused at a flower stand to buy a bunch of peonies, and another time she ducked into a shop smelling of East Indian spices, but her errands were carried out quickly, with little fuss. Then she turned down a side street of row houses with brick façades, with a pub here and a coffee house there to break up the monotony. In fact, one coffee house directly faced the front walk onto which she turned, giving Snape the perfect excuse for his presence on her street. Even as he settled himself down at an outside table, she paused on the top step of her house, fumbled in an oversized brown suede bag for her keys, then let herself in and closed the door behind her.

He eyed the green-painted front entrance for a moment, considering. Part of his mind told him the best thing to do would be to simply stand up, find the nearest uninhabited alleyway, and Apparate back to Hogwarts before he made a complete fool of himself. Surely there had to be a logical explanation for that display he'd seen back in the bookshop -- perhaps the book had been about to fall anyway and only looked as if it had been levitated right into her hand. But that was a specious argument -- there was nothing wrong with his eyes after all, and he had clearly seen the gesture she'd made with her fingers, and the neat arc of the volume she had wanted directly into the palm of her hand.

"What can I get you, sir?" came a voice at Snape's ear, and he startled, then glanced up to see a young man standing off to one side of the rickety painted-metal table and looking at him expectantly.

Snape had little good to say about Muggles or their world, but even he had to admit that it did have one or two appealing vices. So he answered, "Double espresso." A good kick of caffeine might knock some sense back into his head.

"Very good, sir." The young man -- boy, really, as he looked about the same age as the seventh-year students at Hogwarts -- nodded and disappeared back into the coffee house.

Scowling a bit, Snape reached into one of his pockets and fingered the odd assortment of Muggle money he carried there, hoping it would be enough to pay for the beverage. He always tried to bring some cash with him on these excursions, but since his purchases were haphazard at best, he never kept quite straight exactly what things cost, especially since prices seemed to be rise every time he ventured out into the "real" world. Luckily he could avoid public transport -- all he needed was a quiet, unobserved spot to Apparate from -- but on each trip he seemed to find new ways to spend the small bits of non-wizard currency he had in his possession. At least his half-Muggle heritage had given him the ability to tell a pound coin from a penny, compared to many of his pureblood compatriots.

Several discarded newspapers lay on the empty seat next to him, and he picked one up, more to make himself inconspicuous than from any real desire to read its contents. Muggle news rarely carried anything of import, save for the rare occasion when some mishap in the wizarding world hadn't been covered up adequately and the newspapers carried some highly distorted version of the events in question. Snape saw nothing of that sort in the paper he glanced at now, although it did appear that Muggles were just as obsessed with that ridiculous sport known as football as the wizard world was with Quidditch. His lip curled slightly. All organized sports seemed foolish to him, although at least Quidditch could be useful in earning House points.

"Double espresso, sir," said the waiter, placing the plain white glazed mug in front of Snape. "Anything else?"

"No," Snape said.

The boy looked slightly put out by the curtness of the Potions master's reply, but after a quick glance at Snape's face he apparently decided further conversation wouldn't be prudent and beat a hasty retreat into the dim interior of the coffee house.

Snape lifted the small mug to his lips and took a cautious sip, feeling the heat of the thick liquid warm the back of his throat. The stimulant seemed to hit his bloodstream almost the second it reached his stomach, and he smiled slightly before returning his attention to the house across the way.

He saw a small movement of the curtains in the bay window that fronted on the street. Eyes narrowing, he realized that she must have just slid the small sign he now noticed into its spot up against the glass. The sign was obviously home made, but nicely lettered in a dark green Gothic-appearing font against white, contrasting well with the dark curtains that backed it. It bore only two words: _Readings -- Celeste_.

His frown deepened. Then, when realization hit, he almost wanted to laugh.

This mystery woman had apparently set herself up as a psychic.

"Psychics" in the Muggle world could be separated into two categories: misguided types who really thought they had some sort of magical abilities but were as lacking in magical talent as a park bench, and actual wizards or witches who had been carefully planted by the Ministry of Magic to propagate misinformation and therefore contribute to the generally held Muggle notion that psychics were notorious hacks. But he knew this young woman didn't work for the Ministry, and somehow he found it hard to believe that she was a charlatan...which left only one alternative. Perhaps she really did have some sort of ability. How she could have gone undiscovered for so long he had no idea, but it seemed that further investigation was warranted.

Now that he thought about it, her presumed profession would explain the comment she had made about "clients" to the girl in the bookshop. At the time he hadn't really thought about it, but that would also explain why she would see her patrons in the evening, after normal work hours. After all, even those Muggles who thought they believed in magical powers had a tendency to hide their interests for fear of being laughed at. Better to come see the psychic under cover of darkness, he supposed.

Snape drained the rest of his espresso, enjoying the pleasant burn the harsh liquid gave off as it went down. His nerve endings tingled with the stimulant, and he wondered briefly if there were some way to persuade Madam Rosmerta to carry a version of espresso at the Three Broomsticks. Probably not -- she had never cared for him much to begin with, and the suggestion that a Muggle beverage should be offered at her establishment would most likely be met with polite scorn or outright derision.

Setting the empty mug aside, he returned his attention to the ordinary-looking row house across the street. He had spent the first eleven years of his life in a plain brick building very similar in appearance to this one -- except that his father would never have allowed the front door to be painted such a brilliant green, and the window boxes had always been empty and bare. Cheerful pansies bloomed in the planters of the house he watched now, whereas his own mother had never been able to keep the plants she bought with her carefully hoarded spare cash alive for more than a month or so.

_Probably died from all the ill feeling inside_, he thought bitterly. At Hogwarts it was so much easier to forget about those elements of his past, but here, on the very streets where he had been raised, painful memories lurked around every corner. Sometimes it seemed that he could almost, at the edge of his sight, catch a glimpse of the dark, gawky boy he had been. Even though he had been born on the opposite side of town from here, the architecture wasn't all that different, although his own street had been mean and poor, the air thick with the smell of boiled meat and desperation. This neighborhood, on the other hand, seemed much better kept, its inhabitants a mixture of young professionals, artists, and students. Certainly no one would have been able to sit at a mostly clean sidewalk table and order an espresso in his old neighborhood.

But enough of that. Snape slapped three one-pound coins down on the metal tabletop and stood. No one had come or gone from the house across the street during the time he had sat there and carried out his surreptitious surveillance, but the young woman had put the sign in her window, which presumably meant that she was open for business. He was unsure of the protocol involved in such a situation, but if it turned out that he needed an appointment he would simply make one and return. During the summer he certainly had enough empty hours to fill.

An opening in the traffic on the narrow street afforded him the opportunity to cross to the other side, where he paused at the young woman's front stoop. Up close it looked even more neat and clean, the steps freshly swept, a mat of some coiled fiber resting up against the cheerful green door. The shutters on the bay window had been painted the same color, he just noticed. The whole place seemed to be a perfectly ordinary Muggle residence, with nothing unusual about it. And oddly, its very commonplace nature, which normally would have aroused nothing but feelings of scorn in him, seemed strangely attractive. Perhaps he would soon learn if the young woman who lived inside was quite as ordinary as her home appeared to be.

He raised his fist, and knocked smartly on the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you so much for the reviews! I wasn't sure if I was going to get any, considering the sheer overwhelming volume of HP fics on here, but I really did want to tell this story, so...here we are!

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Two

After a few seconds the door swung slowly inward, and he looked into the surprised features of the young woman he had first seen in the bookshop. Her eyes widened slightly as she stared up at him. "Can I help you?"

She had changed her shirt, he realized; now she wore an embellished velvet top of a mossy green that seemed to find an echo in her hazel eyes. Probably the garment was more what Muggles would expect of a psychic, although she'd retained the jeans and flat brown shoes. "I saw the sign in your window," he began, and pointed toward the object in question. "Do I need an appointment?"

With a smile, she shook her head. "Not at this time of day. Most of my clients come to see me later in the evening. Would you like to come in, Mr. -- "

"Snape," he supplied immediately. It wasn't that uncommon a name in this part of the world; he didn't see the harm in giving it to her.

"Mr. Snape," she repeated, then held out her hand. "I'm Celeste Jenkins. Do come in."

After a second of hesitation, he took the offered hand and shook it, noting that her fingers were bare of rings or polish. Then he stepped into a narrow hallway whose shining wooden floors were overlaid with an old Persian runner. The house smelled faintly of beeswax and something more aromatic. Incense, possibly.

"I do my readings in the back parlor," she offered, and pointed down the hallway.

In silence Snape followed her through the corridor and on into a smallish room painted a warm terra-cotta color. Low shelves filled with books lined the walls, but the only other furniture was a small round table flanked by a pair of dark wood chairs with well-padded seats of deep green velvet. An embroidered piano scarf trailed down off the tabletop, and in the center of the scarf sat a small crystal ball on an elaborate brass stand that bore the twining shapes of oriental dragons.

Apparently noting the way his gaze paused on the crystal ball, she gave a small laugh and said, "I know it's a cliché, but it does help me to focus my concentration. Would you please sit?"And she indicated the chair closest to him.

He sat, watching as she took the other seat. Her manner was calm, businesslike, matter-of-fact, quite unlike the air of faraway superiority that Sybill Trelawney and others of her ilk seemed to affect. "How long have you been doing this sort of thing, Miss Jenkins?" he asked.

"Celeste, please," she replied. "I know it must sound silly, considering what I do for a living, but it really is my real name. The Sixties made an indelible impression on my parents apparently." The pleasantly neutral expression she wore darkened slightly, but then she went on, "In answer to your question, about seven years."

"That long? Forgive me, but you must have begun while you were still in school."

"Just about," she said. "Even then I knew I wouldn't be able to do anything else. And after my parents died -- " Then she broke off abruptly. "Forgive me. You certainly didn't come here to hear about that sort of thing."

_But I did_, Snape thought. Perhaps at that point he should have offered the sort of homily that most people produced in such situations, but he considered such niceties beneath him; he hadn't known her parents, so why should he commiserate on her loss?

Celeste paused, as if she had expected him to make a comment, then shrugged, a brittle lift of the slender shoulders beneath the rich fabric of her shirt. Her tone sounded too deliberately casual as she said, "Well, that's ancient history, anyway." Then she leaned forward over the table, knotting her fingers on top of the embroidered scarf, and inquired, "May I take your hand for a moment? I find it helpful to get a sense of my clients before I do the reading."

Reluctantly, Snape placed his hand on the tabletop as she had asked. Physical contact bothered him -- for too many years he'd seen it used as a weapon -- but of course he sensed no malice in the girl who watched him with eyes the deep brownish green of a forest pool.

She laid both her hands on his; they felt cool and soft, the bones light and fragile. For a second she closed her eyes, and then she took in a deep breath. Snape felt a stir of impatience; surely any moment she'd go off in the sort of sham trance he'd seen Sybill Trelawney put on a hundred times.

Instead, Celeste opened her eyes and looked straight at him, but Snape got the sense that she was actually seeing somehow through him. "You're a teacher," she said. "Even though you don't like children very much."

Well, he certainly couldn't argue with that. He resisted the impulse to look down at himself, to see if there were some sort of betraying evidence in his dress that would have told her anything about his occupation. But that was ridiculous; if anything, he looked like someone who should have been working in a record shop or an art gallery, with his overlong hair and black clothing.

"Some might say that," he replied cautiously, resolving not to give anything away.

His reward was a quick smile that revealed a small dimple at the left corner of her mouth. This Celeste was free with her smiles -- he'd give her that. Snape couldn't remember the last time anyone, let alone a woman, had truly smiled at him.

But then her expression grew serious once more, and she frowned slightly, the long lashes dropping to veil her eyes as she appeared to concentrate. "You teach...chemistry?" The last word was uttered with a definite lift, as if she knew she hadn't gotten it quite right.

"Close enough." Of course he couldn't possibly tell her the actual truth.

The half-dreamy flow of words continued: "North of here...a boarding school. I see a lake, and a...castle?"

Well, that was quite enough. Snape abruptly withdrew his hand from beneath hers, and she gave him a sudden startled look.

"Did I say something wrong?"

_No, you were getting far too much right_, he thought. He'd deliberately left his thoughts unshielded, since he hadn't thought the use of Occlumency necessary here, but obviously he had underestimated her.

Apparently unruffled, she calmly folded her hands on the tabletop and gave him a clear-eyed look. "Perhaps you could tell me why you've come to see me, Mr. Snape."

He thought, _Because you're something I can't quite explain_, but remained silent.

For a moment she continued to watch him, until he began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. He wasn't used to such frank regard -- most of the staff at Hogwarts did their utter best to avoid him, and even very few of the students in his own house would have dared to look at him in such an unflinching manner. A sudden thought crossed his mind -- this woman had no idea who he was, how he was the object of so much hatred and distrust. Certainly she had never heard of Severus Snape, black bat of the Hogwarts dungeons. For some reason he found that realization appealing.

"I get clients for many reasons," Celeste went on. "Most of the time it's simple enough -- they want to know 'does he love me' or 'is my wife cheating on me?' Sometimes it's heartbreaking, when I take a reading from people and know that the ailing loved one they've asked about isn't going to live. And sometimes it's wonderful." Tilting her head to one side, she regarded him thoughtfully. "But somehow I get the feeling that you're not here for any of those reasons, Mr. Snape."

"No." He paused, wondering exactly what he should tell her. Perhaps a small part of the truth -- but not all, no, of course not. "I saw you in the bookstore."

Her eyebrows lifted at that. Again with that small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, she asked, "Did you follow me all the way back here to ask me for a date, Mr. Snape?"

"Absolutely not!"

His outburst didn't seem to bother her at all. Still with her mouth curving in the same half-amused smile, she remarked, "Well, I'm not quite sure whether to be offended or relieved." Then her expression sobered, and she went on, "So you saw me in the bookstore. And that made you want a psychic reading?"

Flatly, he said, "I saw how you got that book down off the shelf."

For a second she just sat there looking at him, her face blank and shuttered. Then she said, "Oh."

"Exactly 'oh.' I must admit that the sight of a book sailing off the shelf on its own accord and landing in your hand did take me aback somewhat, Miss Jenkins."

"So you came here to satisfy your curiosity that your eyes weren't deceiving you, that I hadn't put on some sort of cheap parlor trick?" Her tone still sounded level enough, but he could see the sudden narrowing of her eyes.

"Yes."

"And have I satisfied your curiosity yet? Or would you like to play with a pack of cards for a bit? Two years ago I quite befuddled a researcher from Duke University when I called out forty-four of them in a row. After that he had to nip out across the street for a brandy." She crossed her arms, then said, "I think you had better leave."

Apologies did not come easily to him, but Snape knew that he had offended her and should say something to correct the situation. Unfortunately, he was completely unable to summon up the sort of soothing comment that Dumbledore might have been able to produce, or even a half-witty, half-teasing remark of the type that always seemed to work for Sirius Black back when that dodger was trying to charm half the girls at Hogwarts. Snape had very little experience dealing with women, especially Muggle women. Possibly the young woman who faced him now with the daggers in her gaze wasn't exactly a Muggle, but he didn't quite know how to think of her.

He said the first thing that came into his mind. "You fascinated me."

That seemed to set her back a bit. For a few seconds she just stared at him, and then she slowly uncrossed her arms, one hand reaching out with an almost unconscious gesture to touch the smooth surface of the crystal ball that stood in the center of the table. Then she said slowly, "This isn't a game, Mr. Snape. I do all this -- " and she gestured at the crystal, then seemingly toward the room in general -- "to help people. If you don't need my help, then I'm afraid we have very little to say to one another."

"But I do." The words were out of his mouth almost before he knew he was going to say them.

Celeste's expression was still guarded. "For what? Are you writing a paper on psychic phenomena to amuse yourself over the summer holidays?"

"Let me just say that this has been a period when I possibly could have used some...guidance." That was nothing more than the simple truth. Certainly the future had never seemed so cloudy as it did now, what with Voldemort risen and dark disturbances rocking the wizarding world. The scar on his forearm had given over to aching almost constantly, and the suspicion he encountered from almost everyone who knew of his past didn't help any. He hadn't bothered with trying to explain his actions, or attempting to convince those whose minds were plainly made up that perhaps their suspicions were unjustified. He knew it would be a waste of time.

"All right, then." Something in her posture seemed to subtly alter, and this time she reached toward the crystal ball with both hands. "Let's see what we can do about that."

The second her hands wrapped around the subtly gleaming sphere her body seemed to go rigid, and she shut her eyes. This time Snape let his mind go blank, entering that strange mental state of the _Occlumens_, where he could sense everything that was going on around him but would let himself form no opinion or thought regarding what he observed. Whatever else she might be, this Celeste Jenkins had strong psychic talents, and he knew he could not allow her to take protected information from his mind.

"There is a...darkness," she said, and her voice sounded subtly different, some of the northern lilt smoothed away. "Not the sort that can be seen, but it swirls around you, follows you, obscures your way." A sudden spasm seemed to rock her, and Snape saw her fingers clench on the gleaming surface of the crystal ball, her knuckles showing white. "The man who walks in two worlds, Severus Snape, soon finds he cannot live in either."

Her words made him sit upright and fasten a burning glare on her pale features. _Severus Snape? _He had never given her his first name during their introductions. As for the rest -- well, he knew the risks he was taking.

"Go on," Snape said, after a pause. Since he'd launched her on this ridiculous venture, best to hear everything she had to say.

"The Tower is thrown down, and knowledge laid to waste." Celeste took a gasping, hitching breath; it sounded as if some enormous pressure were being exerted against her lungs and throat. "In the seventh month he came, and on the hallowed night -- the hallowed night -- " Her eyes flew open abruptly, and Snape could see a rim of terrified white showing all around her irises. "The power the Dark Lord knows not -- "

At those words Snape leaned forward suddenly, his own breath strangling in his throat. How was it possible? How could this Muggle woman know that phrase from the prophecy Sybill Trelawney had uttered regarding Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort? He stared at Celeste in alarm, at her bloodless face and staring eyes. Still that convulsive breathing wracked her slender body, and he wondered suddenly whether he should shake her out of this trance, keep it from going any further --

She let out a despairing cry, and clapped one hand to her forehead. Perhaps he was going mad -- perhaps he was merely seeing things -- but for the space of half a breath Snape could have sworn he saw the jagged outline of a lightning-shaped scar raise itself up against the smooth skin of her forehead. Then she sagged forward, her body going limp and lifeless. She would have fallen to the floor if he hadn't thrust himself out of his seat, the chair flying backward with the violence of his movement as he hastened to catch her, feeling her as dead weight in his arms just a second before she would have crumpled to the faded rug.

Holding her with one arm, he raised the other hand to feel for the pulse in her throat. There -- she lived, but her heart pounded as if she had just run a marathon, and her skin felt clammy and cold. With care he slid his other arm under her and lifted her. There was no place in this small room to lay her down, but he thought he had spotted a larger sitting room as they had come down the hallway earlier.

His memory served him correctly; just two doors down he found a good-sized chamber that obviously served as her main living room. Here was all the paraphernalia of a normal Muggle existence: television set, stereo, computer sitting on the small desk placed up against the far wall. But there was also an old overstuffed couch, and he laid her down there, watching with some concern as her head lolled limply against a shabby needlepoint pillow.

If he had been back at Hogwarts, he could have quickly mixed her a revivifying potion, but he doubted she would have a tenth of the ingredients he needed on hand, so instead he pushed a stack of magazines to one side, sat down on the coffee table that fronted the couch, and stared at her in some consternation. Yes, she breathed, but she seemed to be in shock. Looking around, he noticed a knitted throw draped over the back of a wing chair and went to fetch it, then draped it carefully over her inert form.

Once he was done with that, he had nothing left to do but watch her and wrestle with the wild thoughts that came and went in his mind. How could she have possibly known any of that? To repeat a phrase from the prophecy nearly word for word? To know of the Dark Lord -- to know that that wretched Potter boy had been born in July and vanquished Voldemort on Halloween? For Snape was sure that was what Celeste had meant by the term "hallowed night."

_Who are you?_ he thought. _How could someone with your powers have hidden in the Muggle world for so long?_ If what he had just seen were any indication, she would have made a far better Divinations professor than Sybill Trelawney ever had.

What made Snape even more uncomfortable was the fact that somehow he could still feel the weight of her in his arms, the way her long unbound hair had brushed against his hands as he laid her down on the couch. Something that had lain dormant for too many years seemed to suddenly stir inside him, and he scowled, digging his fingers into the flesh of his thighs as he stared at the unconscious woman. It was easy to ignore women when there were no interesting ones around, but --

_But nothing_, he rebuked himself. How could he possibly let himself be distracted by whatever questionable charms this Muggle girl might possess, when it was her abilities that were the real issue?

He hated to admit it, but he was out of his depth here. This was a matter that he needed to discuss with Albus Dumbledore. Surely the Headmaster would know if there were any precedent for a being such as Celeste Jenkins.

She stirred then, opening her eyes slowly and gazing at Snape in some confusion. "What happened?" Her voice sounded raw, as if she had spent all afternoon screaming at a Quidditch match.

"You fainted," he said shortly.

"I did?" Frowning a little, she lifted a visibly shaking hand to her forehead, to the exact spot where the mirror of Harry Potter's scar had appeared. Of course there was nothing to be seen or felt there now -- the skin was as smooth and unblemished as ever.

"Does this happen often?" Snape asked, making sure his tone remained cold and clinical.

"No -- never," she replied, after a faint pause. "At least, not for a long time. I think once, when I was eleven -- " A faint head shake, and then she said ruefully, "I hope I didn't frighten you too much, Mr. Snape."

"Hardly," he said. "But I think I should go -- now that I see you're all right."

For a moment she remained silent, a small frown puckering her forehead. "I'm getting bits and pieces -- a Tower...something about Halloween..."

Snape froze. He had hoped that her fainting spell or whatever fit had overtaken her would have served to wipe away her memory of what had just transpired. But apparently some of it was beginning to come back to her. That could be a problem -- for her and for the wizarding world in general. For if Celeste Jenkins ever spoke to anyone of what she had seen -- if word got out to the wrong people --

Although it was not easy to carry a wand in Muggle street clothing, Snape managed it by having a hidden pocket built into the outer seam of his left pant leg. Using the pretense of bending over to brush at a piece of nonexistent grime on his shoe, he leaned down and retrieved the wand. He knew what he had to do.

But as he straightened and looked down at the pale oval of her face, the dark crescents her lashes made against her cheeks as she shut her eyes once more, something made him wish that he didn't have to do this. Somehow he didn't want to remove every trace of his existence from her mind. Perhaps he could simply erase the memories of what had come after she laid her hands on the crystal ball and conjured up those frightening images of destruction and despair.

She was looking up at him now, her wide eyes almost the same mossy green as the velvet top she wore. "Mr. Snape -- is something the matter? Did I say something to upset you?"

"No," he replied. "Just rest, and I'll let myself out." And_ that will be the end of it_, he thought. _I'll go back to Hogwarts, and no doubt Dumbledore will tell me I've been making dragons out of Blast-Ended Skrewts_. That inner voice sounded far more convinced than Snape knew he actually was; he couldn't hazard to think what Dumbledore would make of all this.

For now, he had only one thing left to do. Perhaps this task was something that should have been given over to the Ministry of Magic, but these days Snape wouldn't trust any of them to black his boots.

So he looked down at Celeste Jenkins' puzzled, pretty face, raised his wand, and said softly, "_Obliviate_!"


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you to everyone for your kind and wonderful reviews -- I can't tell you how much I appreciate them! Bit of a change of pace in this chapter, as we switch p.o.v., but as the story goes on you'll see why I've set it up this way. Also, in case anyone was wondering, I am an unabashed Snape fan and feel that he WILL be vindicated in Book 7, so that's definitely the "editorial slant" this piece will have.

* * *

Three

_From the diary of Celeste Jenkins:_

June 25, 1996

I met the most extraordinary man today.

Well, to be completely accurate, I met him yesterday, as I just looked over at the clock and realized that it's now almost half past one. My last client left a little more than four hours ago now, and I've been wandering the house ever since, driven by some crazy energy that I can't completely understand.

It was my stunt at Plunkett's that gave me away, I'm afraid; I should have known better than to show off like that, but at the time I had thought I was alone in the bookshop. Why bother Emily for a step stool when I could just call the book to me? Of course, as it turned out, I hadn't been alone, but absorbed as I was I didn't see him, and I didn't hear him, either -- the man must move like a cat.

Mr. Snape. Somehow the name suits him, suits the cold black eyes and the overlarge nose with the aristocratic bump near the bridge. One might have thought he was just another of those edging-toward-middle-age hipsters who can still be found in Manchester, the ones who like to talk about the glory days of the Hacienda and the birth of new wave -- and at first glance he looked it, with his black clothes and shock of unkempt black hair. But the second he opened his mouth somehow I knew he was much more than that. What a voice he had -- even and educated, but gloriously rich and dark, like black honey. If he'd shown up on my doorstep to sell encyclopedias I think I would have bought a set then and there, if he'd promised to read them aloud to me.

But of course that wasn't why he was here.

He said he wanted a reading, and since it was my slow time -- around two o'clock -- I said of course and let him in. But that wasn't his true reason for seeing me, and I discovered soon enough that he'd spotted me in Plunkett's and followed me back home to try and learn more.

Oh, that made me angry at first. These powers, talents, abilities -- whatever you want to call them, I certainly hadn't asked for them, and for most of my life I hadn't even known of their existence. It wasn't until my parents were both gone, dead after that awful crash on the M66, that suddenly I found I could see far more than other people ever did, that somehow I could take someone's hand and know they'd had an argument with their spouse that morning, or touch a ring and know whether the person who'd worn it was alive or dead -- not to mention lifting a book off a shelf simply using the strength of my mind (I've never managed anything that weighed much more than a book, but it's still a useful skill). At first I had thought I was going mad, overtaken by the grief of losing both parents at once -- but that turned out not to be the case at all. Whatever these powers were, and wherever they had come from, they were _real_.

At the time I was barely into my first term at the University of Manchester, following a vague idea of going into psychology, but I soon gave it up. My gift -- or curse, depending on how I felt about it on any particular day -- wouldn't leave me alone. I found I had to use it to help those around me or be driven to distraction by the unwanted images that flooded my brain. If I channeled it to help those who came to me for assistance, somehow it became more manageable.

I told Mr. Snape that I help people with my talent, but the real truth is that I need them just as much as they need me. Whether the self-serving nature of my vocation compromises its integrity, I can't know for sure. All I do know is that the vast majority of my clients seem to be grateful for the advice I give them, for the glimpses into the future they receive. Sometimes the news isn't good -- far from it -- but somehow they still prefer to know the worst than to know nothing at all.

As for my future -- that's the one vision which eludes me. I can see everyone else's path but my own, apparently. And I have to admit that in a way the lack heartens me. Maybe I'll get hit by a bus tomorrow -- or maybe not. But at least I won't spend my entire life worrying about stepping off the curb.

Of course I said nothing of any of this to Mr. Snape -- that odd man who didn't fit into any of the neat categories I'd constructed for my clients over the years: the nervous spouse, the skeptic (normally I'd put Mr. Snape in this category, since he seemed the type, but he had to know something was up once he'd seen what I'd done in Plunkett's), the money manager, the hypochondriac.

To be perfectly truthful, I'd never met anyone quite like Mr. Snape before in my life. He didn't like to be touched -- I could see that right away, see the quiet alarm in his eyes when I told him I needed to take his hand for a moment before I began the reading. But that's the easiest way for me to start a reading, to get a sense of a person's vibrations (I hate that word, but haven't figured out a better way to describe the sensations I get from holding someone's hand). After a short, uneasy pause he laid his hand down -- and a nice one it was, too, long-fingered and strong, although I noticed the tips of his fingers carried faint stains that looked like ink. As always, what I received from him wasn't so much discrete pieces of information but rather a flurry of images and impressions. I knew immediately that he was a teacher, but he also seemed to possess a good deal of contempt for those in his charge. Well, I'd had my share of ill-tempered instructors over the years, so I didn't find anything particularly unusual about that, but I had the hardest time trying to decipher what it was that he actually taught. I got a blurred impression of beakers and bottles and that sort of thing, so I told him I thought he was a chemistry teacher. He seemed amused by that, and immediately I felt foolish, because usually I do so well at first readings. But then when I began to speak of where he taught -- some amazing place, a great castle-like structure overlooking a lake -- he immediately pulled away from me, as if worried that perhaps I had suddenly divined too much.

Now, who comes to a psychic when he has something to hide?

Things got confusing after that. I seem to recall that he wanted to end the session there, and I have a vague recollection of walking him to the door and then deciding to lie down and take a short nap in the front room -- which I never do, unless I'm ill. All I remember clearly is waking up on the couch some time later, around five o'clock in the afternoon, feeling slightly hung over and with a searing pain high up on my forehead. It hurt so much that I got up and went into the bathroom to take a look, but I couldn't see anything wrong. I swallowed a couple of aspirin, just in case I were coming down with something, but they didn't seem to help much. Briefly I considered canceling my evening appointments, but the next one wasn't due to arrive until seven o'clock, and the pain slowly went away, enough so that I felt as if I could halfway function.

The rest of the evening passed normally enough -- or at least as normally as any evening can where one predicts the future. Micah Johnson is one of my regular clients, but as his main obsession consists of divining the best places to invest his money, as always I saw nothing too disturbing in my visions for his future. He listened carefully to my pronouncements, making neat notations in the little black book he carries with him at all times, then left a fifty-pound note on the table for me as he always does. Fifty pounds for an hour's work isn't bad, and Mr. Johnson finds me to be less expensive than the financial advisors he's used in the past -- and far more accurate -- so we have a happy arrangement.

Perhaps I should have taken my own advice and made some investments using the tips I gave him, but I always worried that once I involved my own money then suddenly it would be about me, and the flow of visions would stop. Besides, I'm comfortable enough -- my parents left everything to me, of course, since I have no siblings. The house is paid for, and people's willingness to drop fairly large amounts of ready cash in exchange for psychic advice has left me with relatively few worries about money.

Which reminds me -- Mr. Snape hadn't even asked me about the cost of a reading, and somehow I had forgotten to bring it up. I wouldn't have charged him for the abortive reading I did give, but still, that was somewhat unlike me. Usually I try to take care of all the business up front so that people know exactly where matters stand. But something about him had put me off my stride. Perhaps it was just his revelation that he'd seen what I'd done in Plunkett's, or perhaps it was his admission that he'd actually had the nerve to trail me back to my home.

Or maybe it was just that voice. I'm not usually the type to get flustered by men -- I can read too much from most of them. And try to find one who isn't at least mildly put off by the thought of having a psychic girlfriend. Relationships are difficult enough without worrying about whether your significant other can tell if you've spent too much of your paycheck drinking down at the pub with your mates simply by touching your wallet -- and forget about infidelity. No need for anything as incriminating as long blonde hairs on your suit jacket if your girlfriend can just pick it up and get a clear image of the entire ménage.

I'd tried once, a few years after my parents had died. Alex was another student at the University of Manchester, although a few years older than I. We'd never bumped into one another at school, since he was a junior when I was a freshman, and we didn't meet until he was actually doing graduate work. He'd heard about me through the grapevine -- which is how everyone hears about me; I certainly don't bother to put adverts in the paper, and even the sign in my window is more to let people know that they've come to the right place than to solicit new business. Ironically, Alex wanted to be a psychologist -- and so of course he found the idea of an honest-to-goodness psychic living right here in Manchester too much to resist. He'd made an appointment, ready to come in and blow approximately fifty holes in whatever story I gave him...and walked out an hour later with his head reeling and his sense of the orderliness of the universe seriously disrupted.

Then he came back again...and again...and all of a sudden he was wanting to see me on a more personal level. Probably a good deal of the attraction was based on what I was rather than who I was. I can admit now that the whole self-sufficient single scene had gotten quite thoroughly on my nerves by then, and I was ready to fall for the first halfway decent man who came along who wasn't frightened off by the whole psychic element of the relationship. And really, I did the best I could. I tried not to "see" any more about Alex than a normal girlfriend would. Sometimes it actually worked. But after a while the whole thing got to be too much for him, and he took off, going so far as to transfer to the University of London in order to remove himself from my orbit.

And after that -- I guess it's going on two years ago now -- I decided the whole thing wasn't worth the bother. I miss the sex, but I don't miss the drama.

I also miss having someone around to laugh at my snarky comments. I have to snark occasionally -- one can't be exposed to the sort of angst I am on a daily basis and not let the steam off every once in a while. It's that or go mad. But all I have right now is a cat who doesn't care much what I say as long as I'm forthcoming with the cat food, and possibly a philodendron who gets me but is, after all, just a plant.

After I'd made that particular comment to my friend Fiona, she looked at me and said blankly, "It's a _plant_."

"Well, yes," I replied. "But look how healthy it is. Obviously it likes me. And I never have to worry about it leaving the toilet seat up."

Not too soon after that she started making noises about setting me up with one of her cousins. "I mean, if you're mooning after shrubbery, then something absolutely has to be done," she pointed out.

All right, I will admit that sometimes I do have an odd sense of humor.

But apparently once the cousin found out I might be able to discern what he'd had for breakfast merely by shaking his hand, he'd bowed out. And after that it had just been me and HBC, my half-Persian bundle of selfishness (HBC stands for Helena Bonham-Carter, because if my cat ever took on human form she'd look just like Helena). And the philodendron, of course.

And the odd black-haired man turning up on my doorstep after following me home from a bookstore. I suppose if I lived in the States I might have considered calling the police after hearing that particular admission. But you can't do what I do without developing some sense about people -- and I wouldn't have much of a business if I turned down the strangers who showed up at my door looking for help. Odd as he looked and seemed, I didn't get any feeling of malice from Mr. Snape...or much of any feeling at all. Some people are like that -- closed off. And others broadcast so loudly they should come with a volume control.

Pity that he took himself off so abruptly. I like to think that maybe I could have helped him -- he had the dark, pinched look of someone who's had to keep far too many secrets. I couldn't tell exactly how old he was, except of course some years older than I, but at the same time I got the impression that he looked older than his real age, that life hadn't been particularly kind to him. It hurts me to see people like that. I know what it's like to have the world throw nasty surprises at you. But I also know that his is the type of person that's the hardest to deal with, because it's easier to stay inside your shell in the dark than to try to reach out for anything that might actually make you feel better about life.

Now I really am rambling. I should just put this notebook away and go to bed, but the thing is, I'm not sleepy. I do have a tendency to keep late hours, just because most of my clients come to see me in the evenings -- "early to bed and early to rise" has no meaning in this house, that's for sure. And then of course there was that odd nap I took this afternoon. I can't even remember the last time I took a nap, except possibly a few years ago when I had a nasty bout of bronchitis. That came not too long after my breakup with Alex -- depression and heartache do wonderful things for your immune system.

The odd discontinuity of the afternoon still bothers me. After I had woken on the couch and gone to take my aspirin, I wandered into the room I use for my readings, the room that used to be my parents' office. The old mismatched desks that used to be positioned in the L formed by the far corner under the windows were about the only things of theirs that I had got rid of, and I had only done that because I wanted that space to be as uncluttered as possible.

As soon as I entered the room I noticed immediately that my crystal ball looked off-center, dragged partway across the table by the piano scarf I'd bought a few years ago at a secondhand shop, and the scarf itself trailed out across the ground, as if it had gotten caught on something. Also, one of the chairs lay on its side a few feet away from the table. I righted it, frowning a little. I didn't remember anything about it getting toppled over like that, but perhaps HBC had done it in one of her periodic rampages. The cat was usually quite lethargic, but every once in a while she'd get a "bit of the devil in her," as my father used to say, and go tearing about the house. Still, she usually stayed out of the reading room -- there wasn't much in there to interest her, and she tended to prefer the front room so that she could lounge on the window seat and soak up the sun. I always kept the reading room dark, with the blinds closed, and the cat tended to disdain that space. Then again, you just never knew with cats.

But somehow it felt wrong.

I'm not the kind of psychic who can just walk into a space and say, "Something bad happened here." I need to have contact with the people I'm reading, or at least items that belong to them. So of course it wasn't as if I'd entered that room and had a sudden vision of Mr. Snape having his wicked way with me or anything like that. Not that I could really imagine that of him. He seemed to be one of those people who was born with his clothes on. But the logical explanation of HBC having an out-of-character romp in there just didn't seem to fit somehow.

So here I have a random assortment of facts -- a strange man saw me levitate a book off the shelf at Plunkett's and followed me home, a chair got knocked over somehow, I took a nap when I never nap and woke up with one of the worst bloody headaches of my life, and for some reason I've been left with the feeling that a piece of my day just disappeared, like a magician making a rabbit go _poof!_ in a puff of smoke.

And ever since Mr. Johnson left, taking his bundle of neat notations and his plans for the next exponential increase in his investment portfolio with him, I've been wandering the house. I almost stirred up a fire in the sitting room hearth, because this has been the most dismal June I can remember, but somehow the thought of doing such a thing after the official start of summer offended my sense of order. Instead, I pulled on a ratty old jumper that I used instead of a proper bathrobe to fend off the decidedly unJune-like chill. Then I occupied myself with rearranging the magazines in the front room (they'd also somehow gotten spread all over the coffee table, even though I distinctly remembered stacking them neatly that same morning), baking my mother's famous shortbread at eleven o'clock at night (luckily I'll be able to find a home for the shortbread over at Topham's, since the boys there are bottomless pits), and writing these silly strings of words in my journal in the vain hope of making some sense of everything that's gone on.

Which, now that I come to think of it, is probably the silliest thing of all. If I've learned anything from my twenty-six years on this planet, it's that sometimes things just don't make sense.

So I suppose I'll go do the only thing that does make any sense. I'll brush my teeth and wash my face and go to bed, and hope that tomorrow won't be quite as insane.

All the same, I can't help wondering if I'll ever see the mysterious Mr. Snape again...


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you to everyone for your lovely reviews -- it looks as if some of my faithful reviewers have followed me over here, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate that! This is a fairly long chapter, but I couldn't figure out how to break it up, so just bear with me.

Just a couple of notes on fitting this into canon: I am trying very hard to make this HBP-compliant, so I do try to research as much as I can. There has been speculation that the house Snape shares with Peter Pettigrew at Spinner's End might in fact be Snape's childhood home, but this isn't explicitly stated, and so I've decided to make it a generic safe house, albeit one that reminds Snape uncomfortably of his own humble origins. Also, J.K. Rowling never really explains the dynamics of what happens when you have a child whose birthday falls after the start of term but only barely so (like those who have birthdays in October or November), so I just made a judgment call and decided that all students start AFTER their eleventh birthday, even if they have to wait almost a year between when they receive their acceptance letters and when they actually start on September 1st. Also, I couldn't resist using the line Snape uses at the end of the chapter -- ten points to the first person who recognizes where it's from. ;-)

And for those of you who aren't as anal-retentive as I am, ignore the preceding and enjoy the following...

* * *

Four

"Celeste Jenkins?" Albus Dumbledore frowned and pushed his spectacles a quarter of an inch further up his nose. "I don't believe I recall a student here with that name." The wizard paused by one of the spindle-legged tables that each held a delicate silvery instrument, tapped a long forefinger on the table's edge, and watched with mild interest as the steam the fragile-looking object was emitting shifted from white to pink and then back to white again. "I once danced a superlative tango with a young witch named Celestia Nimblefoot -- back at the International Confederation of Wizards conference in 1927, I believe."

Snape tightened his jaw until he could hear the mandibular joint creaking slightly. Taking a breath, he replied, "While that may be fascinating, Professor, I'm not sure it's entirely germane to the subject at hand."

Seemingly ignoring that comment, Dumbledore inquired, "Have you ever danced the tango, Severus? I enjoyed the dipping especially..."

"No," Snape ground out, since of course he had never danced anything with anyone, let alone a tango. Crossing his arms, he met the Headmaster's mild blue gaze and forced himself to remember that while Dumbledore might act like one's dotty great-uncle, the elderly wizard happened to be the greatest mage alive. Save one, perhaps. "Do you have any precedent for this? For someone so obviously possessing magical talent to have been completely ignored by the wizarding community?"

"Curious. Although of course the fact that something has never happened before doesn't necessarily preclude it from occurring at some point." Dumbledore fiddled with the embroidered cuff of his robe, then cast an unreadable glance at the portraits that lined the wall behind him. Most of them appeared to be dozing, since the hour was late, although Snape thought he caught the gleam of an interested eye beneath Phineas Nigellus' lowered lid. "There was Chloris Strathmore...but in her case it turned out that the family crup apparently ate her Hogwarts invitation letter. She started one term late, as I recall. Sorted into Hufflepuff, I believe. And of course you might have heard of Aubrey Aldamare?"

The Aldamare case had been before Snape's time -- the man had been active during the late 1940s, in the confusion of postwar London -- but Snape remembered reading a passage on him during his History of Magic lessons. Aldamare had set himself up as a magician, a wizard of the first order, and his skills with illusions had been so advanced that it had taken a Ministry of Magic investigation to discover that the man was in reality simply a Muggle with astonishing facilities of sleight of hand and and a deft touch with smoke and mirrors. In the end Aldamare had been Obliviated back into a desk job in the office of a local M.P., but the case had confounded the wizarding community for a while, as no one could understand how such a powerful wizard could have been overlooked for schooling at Hogwarts.

"Yes, I remember the case," said Snape. "But I don't think that's what we're dealing with here. Celeste Jenkins seemed to me to be the strongest untrained Legilimens I have ever encountered."

For a moment Dumbledore did not reply. He watched the spinning motion of one of his odd little devices, seemingly entranced by the tiny rainbow-like flickers it gave off. Then he asked, "And how old is the young woman in question?"

"I don't know for sure," Snape replied. Celeste Jenkins looked to be somewhere in her mid-twenties, but determining age could be tricky enough in Muggles, and even more so in those with wizard blood. He lifted his shoulders, glad to feel the familiar heavy drape of his black robes. "But young enough that she would have been a student of mine if she'd ever attended Hogwarts."

"This does trouble me somewhat," admitted Dumbledore at least. He made a minute adjustment to the device on the table before him, and it began to spin faster than ever. Apparently satisfied, the Headmaster finally turned to face Snape. "An untrained Legilimens, practicing amongst Muggles. If Voldemort should somehow discover her existence -- "With a shake of his head, he continued, "As far as we know, none of his cadre are particularly skilled in this sort of thing -- present company excepted, of course. No doubt he prefers it that way, since of course then he need not work as hard to keep his thoughts shielded from them. But to take someone who has no wizarding training, put them under the Imperius curse, and use them for his own ends...I can see Voldemort enjoying that very much."

As could Snape. The uneasy thought had already crossed his mind, almost as soon as he had left Celeste Jenkins sleeping on her shabby couch and found a secluded alley from which he could Disapparate. Voldemort's contempt for the world of Muggles had undoubtedly done much to shield the mysterious Miss Jenkins -- even if word had somehow reached the Dark Lord's ears that a psychic of some talent was plying her trade in the prosaic environs of Manchester, no doubt he would have dismissed the rumor as so much more self-deluding Muggle tripe. An unbidden image of the young woman's face rose up in Snape's mind then -- the frank, friendly way she had looked at him, and then the terror in her eyes as the prophecy began to pour forth from her lips. If she had looked terrified then, he could only imagine what her reaction would be if Voldemort were ever to get his hands on her. And that, he thought grimly, must never happen.

"She seems safe enough for now," Snape said at length. "Or as safe as any Muggle these days. There have been no attacks in Manchester."

"Yet," said Dumbledore.

There was no arguing with that. Manchester, as the second-largest city in England, did not present a particularly tempting target -- the Dark Lord had always preferred to focus his attacks on places that weren't so densely populated. Since the country was dotted with small villages and out-of-the-way hamlets, Voldemort had his pick of isolated victims. But simply because the Dark Lord had followed a pattern in the past did not mean that he wouldn't change it in the future -- especially if he learned that a large urban center contained a tempting prize such as Celeste Jenkins.

"You must go to her again," the Headmaster said, after an uncomfortable pause. "We need more information, and as you were the person who first established contact, I believe you are the one who should follow up. At least we are between terms at present, so that your schedule is more fluid."

Well, that was one way of putting it. To keep up the pretense that he was a devoted follower of Voldemort, Snape had secured a safe house in a rundown Yorkshire neighborhood, a wretched little hovel that he was compelled to share with that piece of two-legged vermin, Peter Pettigrew. Once Hogwarts had let out for the summer, Snape had divided his time between his sparse but comfortable quarters here at school and that miserable row house in Spinner's End, a place that reminded him uncomfortably of the shabby home of his childhood. Luckily, his status as one of Voldemort's inner circle allowed him the freedom to come and go as he pleased, so a few days away from the safe house wouldn't be cause for too much comment, even for Pettigrew, who was always trying to stick his pointed nose where it didn't belong.

After he'd left Manchester, Snape had come straight to Hogwarts, glad to throw off the miserable Muggle attire he'd adopted and immerse himself for a few precious hours in the familiar surroundings of his quarters. And, of course, meet with Dumbledore, who unfortunately hadn't done much to illuminate the mystery. Because the simple question remained -- if Miss Jenkins really were a witch and not a Muggle, how could her existence have gone undetected for so long?

"I'll need to go back to Yorkshire for a few days first," Snape said after a moment. He did not bother to elaborate; Dumbledore knew very well why Snape was spending time at Spinner's End, and although both of them had managed to get along so far without any of their plans being discovered by Voldemort, still they kept their conversations heavy with allusion, with meanings understood but not explained. What Snape would have liked most -- to spend quiet time alone here at Hogwarts, untroubled by the intrusions of a pack of empty-headed students -- certainly was not going to happen any time soon. Then again, his life hadn't been his own for many years now.

"Do as you must, Severus," responded Dumbledore. For a second his gaze was anything but mild. "You know that I trust your judgment."

And after that there was really very little left to be said. Snape inclined his head slightly, acknowledging both the statement and the weight of responsibility that went with it, then took his leave, trailing back down to his office through corridors that displayed a notable lack of life. Even Peeves, who normally would have at least found some sort of snide comment to make about the Potions master's hair, looked down on Snape listlessly from his perch atop a suit of armor, apparently decided it wasn't worth the effort, and disappeared somewhere up into the rafters.

Very few members of the staff besides Dumbledore had ever seen Snape's private quarters, and he preferred it that way. He got quite enough of socializing during mealtimes and saw no need to invite any of them back to his sanctuary. No doubt the students visualized all sorts of gruesome interior-decorating details, from death's-heads carved on his bedposts to obscure instruments of torture used as paperweights, but the actual reality was a bit more prosaic. Books, of course, shelves and shelves of them, but beyond that, a well-worn but comfortable leather armchair, a heavy roll-top desk, a serviceable table and chairs of questionable origin (Biedermeier in style, but probably knockoffs dating to the early years of this century). And in the sleeping chamber, a narrow carved bed and matching night table that had once belonged to his mother. The furniture was the only relic he had of her, save one small photograph he kept stowed in the top drawer of his desk. From his father, he had nothing.

The companionable quiet closed in around him as he removed his robes and hung them from a spiral-carved mahogany rack he kept for that very purpose. On a small table next to his armchair sat the latest issue of _Potions Illustrated_ -- a pedestrian effort most of the time, but occasionally it contained a few pieces of useful information -- still with the Charmed ribbon holding his place. The ribbon had been a gift from his mother on his tenth birthday; even then Severus Snape's bookish inclinations had been readily apparent, and the present of the bookmark (which would always remember your place, even if you set the book down without marking it) had seemed to him the most wonderful thing in the world at the time. And, of course, since Severus had obviously treasured it, his father felt compelled to offer his criticism.

"Stop encouraging him," Tobias Snape had said. "The boy always has his nose in a book as it is. I don't know whether I'm raising a son or a mushroom!"

As usual, the sneering remark had precipitated another argument, from which the boy Severus had quietly crept away, clutching his precious bookmark and hoping that the argument wouldn't escalate into an outright fight. At least this time his father hadn't been drinking yet, and so probably only harsh words would be exchanged...

Scowling, Snape turned his back on _Potions Illustrated_ and instead went to the table, from which he lifted a bottle of port, poured himself a very small glass, and allowed himself a drink. The sweet warmth of the liquid seemed to flow through his entire body, right down to his fingertips, and although he did not smile, he could feel himself relax somewhat. He only wished he could stay here for more than this one short night, and leave directly from here to Manchester, but too long an absence from Spinner's End would be noted...and possibly questioned.

Instead, he drained the port, readied himself for bed, and went directly to sleep without speculating any longer on Celeste Jenkins or the puzzle she presented. The best way to keep her safe was to forget about her for now -- he didn't dare return to Spinner's End with her name or face uppermost in his thoughts. Of course, Pettigrew could no more pick her image from Snape's mind than Peter could change the shape he took on as an Animagus, but there was always the risk that Voldemort might summon Snape some time during the next few days, and better he should prepare for that eventuality now.

After all, why dwell on her memory when he would see the real thing soon enough?

* * *

As it turned out, Snape found himself detained in Spinner's End until early Friday evening, though thankfully not by Voldemort. Instead, the Carrows dropped in Wednesday night, on the run after a round of Muggle-baiting and torture in Grimethorpe. He could find no good reason to get rid of them before they were ready to leave; any eagerness to depart would undoubtedly have given rise to awkward questions. So he stayed with ill grace, cooped up in the dilapidated lodgings which he had detested from the moment he set foot in them, until at last Amycus and Alecto decided they had made themselves scarce long enough and mercifully departed.

Before they left Alecto laid a poorly manicured hand on Snape's sleeve and said with a simper, "Thank you so much for your hospitality, dear Severus. It is good to know that there are still places of refuge for those who are loyal."

He had picked her hand off his arm as if removing a crawling insect before saying, "I am sure _Peter_ enjoyed your company very much."

Of course the woman was too much of a dimwit to pick up on the subtle insult contained in his words, and Snape had watched her and her equally lumpish brother finally take themselves off with a barely concealed sneer. Fortunately, his ill temper was as well known among the Death Eaters as it was the students at Hogwarts, and the low-level loathing he had displayed toward the Carrow siblings during their tenure at Spinner's End probably seemed to them no more than his usual poor humor.

Still, it was with a feeling of intense relief that he drew on the drab Muggle garments he wore whenever he found it necessary to move unnoticed amongst nonmagical folk. Peter had disappeared, probably in search of some sort of libation to get him through another weekend with Snape. The rat had taken to drinking excessively of late; Voldemort tended to frown on that sort of behavior, but Snape at this point was supremely unconcerned as to Pettigrew's fate.

The evening had moved on past eight o'clock by the time Snape finally Apparated in the same alley he had used earlier in the week. At this time of year the skies were still fairly bright, although the slanting quality of light told him that night would be falling within the hour. As he moved quietly out of the alleyway he saw that the streets were crowded with Muggles in search of entertainment, the long work week finally drawing to a close. He wondered briefly whether Celeste Jenkins would even be at home -- after all, she was a young woman who no doubt had better things to do than sit at home on a Friday night.

It was even possible that she might be married, although he had seen no ring on her hand. She might not wear one, but somehow he doubted that. His limited experience had told him that women tended to embrace that symbol of their servitude, whereas men often abandoned it altogether. Certainly his mother had worn her wedding ring throughout her marriage, even though his father (as far as Snape could tell) never had. But something about Celeste Jenkins and her home spoke of one who lived alone.

Still, he was here in Manchester now, and if she happened to be out, he'd either find someplace to wait for her return or simply come back the next day. By this time Pettigrew was used to Snape's haphazard comings and goings and wouldn't ask any questions...especially if he were occupying himself with a gin bottle.

The dank air around Snape seemed to lie damply on his shirt collar. This summer had been unseasonably cold and damp so far, and unfortunately he knew the reason why -- the Dementors had thrown off the Ministry's yoke and wandered the countryside freely...and Dumbledore had said they were breeding. So far none had been reported in the vicinity of Manchester, but the gray, grim weather they caused had pervaded the entire country. Snape noticed that the crowds around him on the streets seemed uncharacteristically quiet, the usual bright humor of a free Friday night muted by the heaviness of the atmosphere.

Before he knew it, he found himself standing on Celeste's doorstep, the bright green of her front door seeming dimmer in the gray onset of twilight. He noticed that the sign had gone from the bay window and wondered if that were her way of saying she was not presently open for business. But there was no help for it. Dumbledore expected him to see this through, and, although he did not want to admit it to himself, Snape was curious as to what he could learn from Celeste Jenkins about her past.

He knocked, then waited in increasing trepidation as a long silence followed. Perhaps she really had gone out. He had just raised his hand to knock again when the door finally opened, and Celeste Jenkins stared out at him with startled eyes.

"Oh," she said. "It's you."

This singularly obvious remark made Snape pause for a moment as he looked back at her. Certainly she did not look as if she intended to go out -- her heavy hair was pinned up in a truly disastrous fashion, with errant strands escaping the pins and falling every which way. Even Hermione Granger would have been hard-pressed to achieve such a rat's nest. In addition, Celeste had on faded jeans, argyle socks, and an appalling vomit-green mohair cardigan over what looked like a man's white undershirt.

Affecting not to notice her untidy appearance, Snape inquired, "Do you have a moment?"

"I -- well, I -- " She floundered for a moment, then said, "Well, yes, of course. I am sorry -- do come in." And she stepped aside and let him enter the hallway, even as one flustered hand rose to her head and she began surreptitiously pulling the pins out and depositing them in her jeans pocket.

Snape followed her into the front room, noting with some amusement that Celeste continued to fiddle with her hair the entire time until she had it lying in a reasonably acceptable mass down her back. She indicated that he should sit down on the couch, then hurried over to the stereo system and shut off the cacophonous sounds -- Snape hesitated to call it music -- that had been streaming forth from the speakers.

"Sorry about that," she said. Her manner seemed sonewhat nervous, but perhaps the mere fact of his reappearance had thrown her off-balance a bit. "I don't usually see clients on Friday nights -- "

As he had thought, judging by the lack of signage in her window. Well, no help for it now. He saw all the evidence of a solitary evening around him -- spice-scented candles burning on the mantel, a half-drunk glass of red wine on the coffee table, a copy of C.G. Jung's _On Dreams_ lying open on the couch next to him. As his gaze fell on the book, he raised an eyebrow; certainly that was not what he would have expected her to pick up for some light weekend entertainment.

Snape decided to forego an apology, even if he could have thought of one. Instead, he met her puzzled stare and said, "Our last session...raised some questions."

"Did it?" she replied. "I was under the impression that you couldn't get out of here fast enough, Mr. Snape."

Her tone sounded matter-of-fact, but he could tell she was slightly irritated. "May I be perfectly honest with you, Miss Jenkins?"

"Only if you stop with the 'Miss Jenkins' nonsense and call me Celeste."

"Very well, then." Snape cast about for the best way to approach the subject, then decided perhaps it was best to start from the beginning. "You have some astonishing abilities, Celeste."

She said nothing, but watched him through narrowed eyes, obviously wondering what was going to come next.

Some men might perhaps have been put off by her silence, but he had faced much worse than subtle hostility from a woman who merely seemed to question his motivations. Ignoring the awkward pause, Snape asked, "Have you always had the ability to read other people? To see the future?"

"No," she said. "That came on seven years ago. Right after -- right after my parents died."

That was somewhat unexpected. Wizard-born children usually began exhibiting signs of their abilities long before they received their official invitations to study at Hogwarts. He himself had been able to perform simple levitations -- not unlike what he had seen Celeste do in the bookshop -- by the time he was six years old. Snape wondered if there were any precedent for someone's magical abilities appearing after they had achieved adulthood; he'd certainly never heard of such a thing.

"So nothing before that?" he inquired. "No odd flashes -- no strange things occurring that had no logical explanation?"

"None," she said firmly. "I'm afraid I was quite a dull child." Finally she smiled a little, as if amused by her ordinariness.

Well, he hadn't thought it would be that simple. As he'd made his way over here through the clammy evening, he'd wrestled with how much information he could afford to divulge to her. Usually the wizarding community did everything in its power to keep its very existence secret from Muggles, but occasionally that unspoken rule had to be ignored. Oh, he had no intention of giving everything away to Celeste Jenkins, but he had to tell her enough so that she would allow him access to her mind. If she was hiding something, he should be able to detect it soon enough.

"I may not have given you the whole truth during our first session," he said, choosing his words with care. At that statement Celeste's mouth thinned slightly, but she remained silent, obviously deciding to let him speak his piece. "I myself have some small abilities in this area as well. And let me say that there are not so many of us that I could afford to let you slip by me."

"So you're saying you're psychic, too?" Looking annoyed, she sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. "No offense, Mr. Snape, but if I had a pound for every time someone tried to feed me that line -- "

He held up a hand. "Let me finish. I am not saying that I am psychic...at least not in the way that you may think. To be precise, I have some skill at the art of Legilimency, which allows me to read the memories and thoughts of those who will allow it. I certainly make no claim to having the gift of divination as you do."

Her gaze shifted to the half-empty glass of wine that sat on the coffee table before her. No doubt she would very much have liked to take a drink at that point, but her manners were good enough that she would not do so in front of him. "So how does this Legil -- Leg -- "

"Legilimency," he supplied.

"How does this Legilimency differ from what I do?"

"In my case, it required years of practice, whereas it seems as if you've developed the gift spontaneously and on your own. That is," Snape added, "unless you had an instructor you haven't yet mentioned?"

"Hardly," Celeste said. "Believe me, this was all trial and error on my part."

"As I had thought." He paused for a moment, wondering how best to phrase his request. "But your gifts do interest me, and so I had hoped that perhaps you might allow me access to your thoughts for a moment."

"You want to read my mind." Her tone sounded flat, disbelieving.

"To put it baldly, yes."

A silence fell then, as she stared at him and Snape held himself upright and unmoving under her inspection. There was every chance that she would order him out of the house, of course. Simply because she did the same sort of thing to others every day didn't mean she would allow that sort of scrutiny to be turned on herself.

Finally she gave a small, uneasy laugh and said, "Well, you do have me fairly caught, don't you, Mr. Snape? If I refuse you, then I'm quite the hypocrite, aren't I?" Not bothering to wait for a response, she continued, "All right -- but one thing first."

"What?" he asked, hoping she wasn't going to ask anything too outlandish of him.

"What's your first name? Pardon me, but if you're going to go wandering around in my mind, I'd like to know that much at least."

He would have preferred not to tell her, but he had to allow that much trust between them. "Severus," he replied quietly.

"After the Roman emperor?" she responded.

Her reply startled him somewhat; he wouldn't have expected her to know the reference. "And my grandfather," he said.

"Interesting," Celeste said. "It suits you."

Not sure exactly how to reply to that comment, Snape went on, "Then if you will allow me -- "

"Of course." She shifted slightly in her fussy Victorian chair, looking a little ill at ease for the first time. "Do you need me to do anything?"

"Just remain as you are, and relax."

"Easy for you to say," she replied immediately, but then she took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a few seconds, then reopened them. "I'm ready."

"Very good." Unlike Celeste, Snape did not need to touch the person upon whom he would cast the spell of Legilimency. Instead, he faced her squarely, looking into her eyes, which looked almost brown in the dimness of the room. No words needed to be said aloud; he only let himself fall into her mind, sorting through the ordinary chaos that everyone, both wizard and Muggle, held within.

Scattered impressions rushed past him, the detritus of her everyday life. For a second he caught a glimpse of a lean black-haired man whose image was tinged with a certain amount of wistful curiosity, and it took him a second to realize that he was looking at himself as Celeste saw him. But he had no time to contemplate that novel concept -- she held herself fearlessly open before him, and he saw faces come and go, clients, friends, those she passed on the street...but no family at all that he could tell. Backward he sifted through her memories, seeing a sandy-haired young man over and over whose memory-image was tinged with resentment and sadness. Then at last, over and over, a man and woman in their late thirties or early forties who must have been her parents -- the woman had Celeste's delicate features and hazel eyes, though her hair was quite dark. Snape saw Celeste at school, Celeste on holiday somewhere on the shore, and then a Celeste much younger than she was now, with braces on her teeth, probably about the same age as the first-years who plagued his existence.

But after that it was as if he hit a brick wall. He could find no memories that placed her any younger than eleven or so, nothing...until he caught a flash of something that didn't seem to quite fit. Stopping there and letting the unceasing flow of unrelated memories move past him was one of the hardest things he had ever done. But there it was again -- a birthday party, with an eleven-year-old Celeste sitting behind an enormous cake with hideous purple and pink frosting. That shouldn't have been noteworthy...save for the fact that the sparklers on the obnoxious confection appeared to be the same Everlasting Borealis specials that Snape had seen on some of the students' cakes at Hogwarts. What on earth?

He tightened his focus, and the scene dropped into place around him almost as if he had been there. The hordes of relatives, none of whom looked even remotely Muggle-ish. Celeste behind the cake, glowing with excitement. And her mother handing the girl a large white envelope that Snape recognized immediately.

"Of course, it will be quite a wait until you can attend," said Celeste's mother. "But we are so proud of you, darling, so proud."

"Will they teach me to disappear?" the little girl asked eagerly.

"'Disapparate,'" Celeste's mother corrected gently. "But yes, that and so many other wonderful things."

The young Celeste smiled, and turned to look up at her father. She opened her mouth, but what she had intended to say Snape would never know, for instead the image darkened suddenly, and he felt an echo of some hideous, searing pain high up on his forehead, just as the memory-Celeste clapped her hand against her head and screamed, screamed as if she were being burned alive, or torn limb from limb. Clusters of concerned relatives swarmed the girl, and then the scene went black.

Snape came back to himself with a gasp he managed to choke short, only to see the present-day Celeste looking at him with some concern but no apparent recollection of the events he had just seen.

"Severus?" she asked uncertainly. "Is everything all right?"

What a foolish question. How could it be all right, when he had just seen that she had been no more born a Muggle than he -- less, for it certainly appeared as if her parents were both wizard folk. And that pain -- that pain which had appeared in the exact same spot as the damned Potter boy's scar --

"Your birthday," he said at last. "What day is your birthday?"

Celeste looked at him as if he had lost his mind. "What on earth should that matter?"

"Tell me!"

Obviously deciding it wasn't worth arguing with a madman, she said, "Halloween. October thirty-first."

He wanted to laugh, but didn't dare. The pieces were still scattered, but Snape thought he was beginning to see a pattern, insane though it might be.

"Severus -- "

Celeste was beginning to look frightened, the healthy glow that usually warmed her skin notably absent. But he didn't know what he could say to her -- didn't know what he might reveal without putting her into further danger.

The scent of the candles burning on the hearth suddenly seemed cloying, and he stood abruptly, wanting nothing more than to be away from this place so he could think.

"What is it?" The urgency in the young woman's voice had begun to bleed into outright fear.

Snape ignored her and headed toward the front door. Dumbledore needed to be told, but first --

"Where are you going?" Celeste cried, obviously driven past all propriety by his odd behavior.

Snape paused on the doorstep, staring into her taut, lovely features. "To see if there's a pub!" he snapped, then disappeared into the night.


	5. Chapter 5

I should have known there were a bunch of Alan Rickman fans out there! Seriously, I've wanted to have Snape say that line for a long time. ;-) Thanks for the reviews, everyone -- you're all fabboo!

* * *

Five

As it turned out, there was a pub across the street, only three doors down from the coffee house where, several days earlier, Snape had drunk an espresso and mused on the mysterious young woman he had seen in the bookshop. A faded sign above the door showed a somewhat dodgy-looking individual wearing a black top hat, while the legend below the illustration proclaimed, "Topham's -- Since 1924!"As it was now pushing on past nine in the evening, the place was crowded, but Snape shouldered his way through the throng of patrons and managed to secure a stool at the far end of the bar.

"Scotch," he told the barkeep, who sported an impressive mass of dreadlocks.

"Single or blended?" asked the bartender in a strong West Indies lilt.

"What do you think?" Snape retorted, and the young man grinned, showing the flash of a gold tooth as he did so, then reached up and poured a shot full of Glenmorangie. Without comment he set it in front of Snape and then sauntered off down the bar in response to a call for another round of Boddington's.

Snape lifted the shot glass and swallowed half the liquid it contained, then set the glass down on the bar, mind racing. Perhaps he shouldn't have left her home in such a precipitous manner, but he knew Celeste would have launched into questions immediately, and he wanted to get his thoughts sorted out before he faced her again. Of course he had suspected that she couldn't possibly be a Muggle -- not with the sort of talent she had displayed -- but it was one thing to have a vague notion about something and quite another to be confronted with fairly concrete proof. He hadn't recognized Celeste's parents, but if they had been in their late thirties or early forties when she was eleven, then of course they would have been long gone from Hogwarts by the time he attended the school. But at least he had trapped the memory in his own mind and would be able to place it in Dumbledore's Pensieve so that the Headmaster could try to identify the couple. They had to have sheltered her somehow all those years, kept her hidden from the wizard world, but after they died --

"You!"

The word, uttered in a low but carrying voice, made him turn around immediately. Celeste stood immediately behind him, her face white with fury.

"Miss Jenkins, I -- "

"Oh, don't you 'Miss Jenkins' me! What the bloody hell is the matter with you?" A few of the patrons who stood immediately near her looked over with some interest -- no doubt eavesdropping on a stranger's row would be the highlight to their Friday evening.

"Perhaps you should moderate your tone -- " he began, in the sort of warning voice that always had an immediate dampening effect on his students.

"Don't you tell me to 'moderate' anything! Why did you go running out like that? What did you see?"

"Celeste, this is not the place to discuss this -- "

"Then come back and do me the courtesy of explaining what the hell is going on!" She pushed a strand of hair back behind her ear and crossed her arms; Snape noticed that, furious as she might have been, she had at least stopped to slip on a pair of shoes and trade the hideous bile-green cardigan for a brown suede jacket.

"This mon botherin' you, Celeste?" drawled the bartender suddenly, looking at Snape through narrowed dark eyes.

The interruption seemed to calm her somewhat. A bit of the tension went out of her shoulders, and she replied, "No, Reggie, I'm all right. But thanks."

"Hmm." Reggie gave Snape a dubious glance, then lifted his shoulders and moved away down the bar -- but Snape noticed that the barkeep continued to watch the two of them out of the corner of his eye.

Obviously they couldn't remain here. Deliberately he lifted the shot glass and drank the remaining half of his scotch, then replaced the shot on the bar and began to reach in his pocket for some cash.

"Don't bother with that," Celeste snapped. She pushed past Snape and leaned over the counter. "Reggie, put that on my tab, will you?"

Again the bartender looked doubtful, but he just shrugged again. "Sure thing."

"Miss Jenkins, I assure you that I can pay my own custom -- " Snape began, irritated that she should forestall him in such a manner.

At that she turned and glared at him as fiercely as someone with such delicate features could. "And if you call me 'Miss Jenkins' one more time, I swear I'm going to scream. Let's get out of here."

And she grasped the sleeve of his shirt and practically hauled him off the barstool. Certainly Snape couldn't remember the last time he had been subject to such manhandling, and although he felt his hackles go up at the cavalier manner in which she addressed him and assaulted his person, in a way it was almost refreshing to be around someone who clearly did not fear him at all. Without comment -- and trying to keep a thin smile from his lips, for he was sure that Celeste Jenkins' ire would only escalate further if she discovered her righteous fury was a source of some amusement to him -- he followed her out of the pub and back down the street to her home. A light rain had begun to fall, dampening the streets and increasing the chill in the air. It felt like March, not the dregs of June.

But inside Celeste's house all was warmth. A radiator hummed against the far wall, and even the colors -- mossy green, dark red, soft brown -- seemed intended to inspire a feeling of comfort, of safety. It was as far from his quarters at Hogwarts as Snape could imagine, and even farther from the dingy house at Spinner's End.

When he entered the now-familiar front room, a large long-haired black cat looked up from the sofa and gave him a baleful look, then reluctantly jumped down when Celeste flicked a careless hand in its direction and commanded, "Off!"

Since Celeste obviously intended that he sit there, Snape resumed his position on the center cushion of the couch. She, however, did not sit, but instead remained standing, arms crossed as she glared down at him.

Her first words surprised him. "If you wanted a drink, you could have just asked me for one."

"I hardly think that would have been appropriate," he replied, nonplused.

"More appropriate than storming out of here as if you'd just seen a ghost and announcing that you were off to the pub?"

Fairly caught, he settled for shooting her the sort of narrow-eyed look that regularly gave first-years nightmares. But instead of turning pale or bursting into tears as those hapless students often did, she merely snapped, "Don't you scowl at me, Severus Snape. What did you see?"

Coolly, he said, "I saw your parents."

Apparently unimpressed, Celeste replied, "Well, I expect you might. They were, after all, my parents, and I would think they'd be in my thoughts a good bit!"

_Save me from the power of righteous indignation_, Snape thought. Still, he had to allow some grudging respect for her refusal to be cowed. "Tell me, Miss -- " He broke off as he saw her open her mouth, probably to reprimand him once again. " -- _Celeste_. Have you always lived here in Manchester?"

Whatever retort she'd been about to utter appeared to evaporate as she considered his question. "No," she said. "We moved here just after I turned eleven."

Eleven again. Always eleven. The age at which she'd received her Hogwarts letter. The age at which she'd somehow made a brief connection to either Voldemort or Harry Potter -- at this point Snape wasn't exactly sure which was the case. "And before that?"

She frowned then, looking somewhat confused for the first time. "A little town in Lancashire called Carnforth. I'm afraid I don't remember it very well."

_As of course you wouldn't_, he thought. Remaining silent, he glanced around the room, noting several family photos on the mantel, as well as on the side table next to the couch on which he sat. But none of them pictured a Celeste any younger than eleven -- no gap-toothed seven-year-olds, no baby photos. Even his own mother had managed to amass a collection larger than what he saw here.

"And you moved here because?"

"Something to do with Dad's job. And then there was the fire."

"Fire?" he echoed.

She nodded. "Not too long after my birthday. We lost everything."

A convenient lie, Snape surmised, to explain the lack of anything connected to the life Celeste had once lived in the wizarding world. Her parents must have pulled up stakes and come here, hoping to bury themselves among the bustling commonplaces of life in a large metropolitan area. And the amount of Obliviation required to remove all memory of her previous existence -- he shook his head. There was only reason her parents would have committed such an act.

They must have feared for her life.

"Severus?"

Snape looked back at her, noticing as if for the first time the pallor of her fine skin, the way her greenish eyes seemed to darken toward brown in the softly lit chamber. The note of bravado her voice held earlier had vanished; now she sounded almost frightened.

What to tell her? How much? She had to be told something -- an untrained Legilimens in these dark days was far too tempting a target. If nothing else, Celeste Jenkins needed to learn something of Occlumency, something to help protect her against discovery by Voldemort. And Snape realized, somewhat to his surprise, that he wanted to be the one to teach her.

"I spoke to you of Legilimency," he said slowly. "But it has its obverse, which is known as Occlumency. It is the art of hiding one's thoughts, shielding one's memories, so that they cannot be used as a weapon."

"How can thoughts be used as a weapon?" she asked.

Amazing how she could seem so worldly in some ways, and so innocent in others. But of course she had had a part of the world hidden from her for most of her life. "Sit down, Celeste," he said.

She ceased her hovering and took a seat once again in the carved chair that faced the couch, then folded her slender hands over one knee.

"What you may think of as a form of psychic power is merely another tool in the arsenal of a wizard -- or witch," Snape added.

"A wi -- oh, you must be joking!"

"I never joke."

A corner of her mouth lifted. "Why does that not surprise me?"

"As I was saying," he went on, ignoring the jibe, "what you may regard as psychic powers are simply another manifestation of your magical abilities. Magic takes many forms, and -- "

"Are you saying I'm a witch?" Celeste asked. "And that you're a wizard?"

"Yes."

For a moment she just sat there, staring at him, and then she began to shake. At first Snape wasn't quite sure what was wrong with her, and then he realized that she was _laughing_. He glared at her with affronted dignity, until she gasped and said, "I am sorry, Severus. But you can't possibly expect me to believe -- I mean, a wizard?"

There was no help for it. For such a simple spell, he didn't even need his wand. "_Accio_ crystal ball!" he murmured, and the crystal ball suddenly appeared on the coffee table, sitting uneasily on top of a pile of _Look_ magazines and _News of the World_.

For a few seconds Celeste merely sat there, staring at the sphere, her gaze almost as glassy as the surface of the object in question. Then she looked over at Snape, moistened the center of her lower lip with the tip of her tongue, swallowed visibly, and faltered, "It -- you brought it here. All the way from the other room."

"Yes."

She reached out with a trembling hand to touch the surface of the glass, as if she needed to reassure herself that it was real. "So it's true."

"Yes."

Again Celeste sat there in silence, looking from the crystal ball up to Snape's face and back again. "You're a wizard, " she said at last.

"Yes."

"But I don't see how that makes me a witch. I can't do anything like -- like that." Nervously she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Oh, sure, lift small things, but only if they're within a few feet of me. Not something all the way down the hallway, or so heavy -- "

"You haven't been trained," Snape interposed smoothly. At least she seemed willing to accept the fact of his abilities. Then again, she had been dealing with otherworldly powers of her own for more than seven years, so perhaps her mind was more open than a Muggle's would be. _Not that she's anything close to a Muggle_, he added mentally. Who knows how far she could have gone, with the proper training?

"So how do I get training?" she asked, and suddenly her voice sounded eager. Leaning forward, she went on, "Is there some sort of school, or -- "

He almost hated to dash her hopes. Whatever else happened, he knew that sending Celeste to study at Hogwarts was certainly not an option. "There is," he said carefully. "As a matter of fact, I teach there."

"Of course," Celeste said immediately. "The place I saw in your mind. The castle. So I could -- "

He interrupted, "No, you could not. Due to some -- irregularities -- in your past, you are not a suitable candidate. For one thing, you're far too old."

"Oh, really?"

Damn women and their foolish jumping to conclusions. "Yes, considering that all students start at Hogwarts when they're eleven."

"Oh." For a few seconds she looked crestfallen. Then she managed a halfhearted smile and said, "I suppose I would look a right fool, trying to fit in with a bunch of eleven-year-olds!"

"An astute observation of the situation," Snape drawled.

"So what do you teach there, anyway?" Celeste's face showed no sign of her earlier disappointment; her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

"Potions."

"Ah...well, that explains it, doesn't it?"

"Explains what?"

"Why I thought you taught chemistry. All those beakers and bottles." She shot him a mischievous look. "So do you use eye of newt and toe of frog in your potions?"

"Occasionally," he replied, attempting to understand what the joke was. "I fear, however, that Potions is not a subject you should be pursuing at the moment..."

"Pity. I know my friend Fiona wouldn't mind me brewing her a love potion or two." Again Celeste gave him a flash of that impish glance from beneath her long eyelashes. "Or is that sort of thing against the rules?"

"Not 'against the rules' per se, but it is frowned upon. The unforeseen consequences -- "

At that point she burst out laughing. Snape frowned at her, again wondering what she found so amusing.

"I'm sorry," she said at once, obviously noting his scowl. "It's just that I'm sitting here asking you about love potions, and you're answering me with such a serious expression, and the whole thing is just a bit surreal." The smile faded from her face, and she suddenly looked quite serious. "Just my way of coping, I'm afraid. I didn't mean to offend you."

Perhaps he should have been offended, but somehow Snape found he was not. This was all rather a lot to take in, after all, and he supposed he couldn't blame Celeste for trying to deal with it in the way she knew best. "None taken," he said, although his tone sounded somewhat stiff even to himself. "But I think I should go. I'll need to discuss this with -- " He hesitated, then decided it was better not to mention Albus Dumbledore's name here -- "with my superiors."

Was he imagining things, or did a flicker of disappointment cross her features? Snape tried to remember the last time anyone was disappointed by the fact that he was leaving and failed miserably. Usually his disappearance from any given scene was met with relief.

All she said, however, was, "But there's still so much you haven't told me."

He couldn't argue with that, but he also knew that he wanted to have a better idea of exactly how deep the mystery went before he told Celeste anything more. Although he had given her small pieces of information, he hoped that none of it provided enough detail for it to have done any real harm. "I know," he replied. He hesitated, then added, "I know this must be difficult, but know that I will return to speak with you more when I can."

For a long moment Celeste was silent, watching him carefully. "All right, then," she said, and she smiled just a little. "I trust you."

She could have no idea how much that simple statement shook him. For so long he'd been an object of scorn, of distrust, of fear, that he had quite given up looking for even simple respect from another human being. Oh, Dumbledore was different, but one could hardly measure the rest of the wizarding world against that particular yardstick. But of course he would not let her know how she had unexpectedly moved him. "You don't even know me," he responded, after a brief pause.

Her smile deepened. "No, I don't," she said. "But I think I would very much like to."

For once he found himself at a loss. Not knowing quite what to say, he rose to his feet instead. "I will take my leave of you now."

Those quiet green eyes of hers didn't flicker. "Of course." And she stood as well and followed him to the entryway, then unhooked the little chain lock and opened the door.

Outside, the evening was damp and drab and still, the light drizzle making odd nimbuses around the sodium-vapor street lights. Snape paused on the threshold, looking out at the bleak evening and wishing that he was wearing his robes instead of the inadequate Muggle attire he had donned in preparation for coming here this evening.

Celeste looked up at him and said, "I'll be seeing you, then."

Before he could stop her, she reached out and took his hand, gave it a gentle squeeze, and released it. The dimple appeared briefly at the corner of her mouth as she appeared to note his discomfiture.

"Next time," she went on. "I _will_ get you that drink."

And she closed the door behind him, still smiling.

* * *

"Treacle tart," said Snape, and the gargoyle moved aside, allowing the Potions master entry to the moving stairs that led to Dumbledore's office. It was one of the less offensive of the code phrases the Headmaster had selected to secure his private quarters, but Snape was still glad no one was around to hear him utter the ridiculous words.

Although by now the night had worn on well past eleven o'clock, the chamber he entered was still alight with dozens of candles. Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk, scratching away on a piece of parchment, but he laid the quill aside and looked up at Snape expectantly as soon as the younger man paused on the faded Persian rug in the center of the room.

"So you've returned," Albus said. "I trust that your trip was an informative one?"

"Quite," replied Snape. "Celeste Jenkins is no more a Muggle than you or I."

"Ah." The syllable was barely more than a soft letting out of air. "Do you know who she is?"

"Unfortunately, no. I was able to capture one memory only which showed her parents -- I had thought to use the Pensieve, so that you could look at the memory and see if you recognized them."

"Of course." With those words Dumbledore stood and went to a black cabinet off in one corner, and retrieved the shallow stone basin, setting it down on an unused pedestal off to one side of his desk.

The sight of the thing made Snape's lip curl slightly in dislike. Oh, the Pensieve had its uses, and he knew that placing the memory he had taken from Celeste's mind in there for Dumbledore to view was necessary, but ever since the damned Potter boy had seen that one memory of his -- the one Snape had tried so hard to keep from him -- he'd often thought he'd like to see the stone basin smashed into a thousand pieces.

But of course that wasn't an option. With a small clenching of his jaw, Snape drew out his wand and placed it at his hairline, closing his eyes for a moment to help better isolate the one memory he wished to remove. Then he reopened his eyes, touched the tip of his wand to the surface of the Pensieve, and watched as the shimmery gray-white strand dropped into the stone basin and swirled there, waiting.

Dumbledore immediately placed his bearded face into the bowl, and after a few seconds, Snape followed suit. He doubted he'd be able to see anything new, but it was always helpful to have two sets of eyes looking at the same memory.

Once again he saw the cheerfully cluttered room, the ranks of watching relatives, the sparkling cake and the beaming girl who sat behind it. Her parents stood just behind Celeste, the mother looking very much like her daughter, save for her dark brown hair, the father pleasant-faced and with hair red enough for a Weasley. And again came that wave of searing pain, the image of Celeste bringing a shocked hand up against her forehead, even as the memory wavered into darkness.

Snape lifted his face out of the Pensieve, only to see Albus Dumbledore already standing upright, an odd expression on his face. His blue eyes seemed somewhat out of focus, as if he were still gazing at something very far away.

"Well?" Snape asked. "Did you recognize them?"

Slowly Dumbledore shifted, his gaze gradually sharpening. "Oh, yes. Bettina Wooster and Avery Cadogan. She was in Gryffindor, and he was a Ravenclaw...very gifted Arithmancy student, as I recall."

The names meant nothing to Snape, but they were of course much older than he and had come and gone at Hogwarts long before he began his tenure there. "What happened to them?"

"They died in the First War."

Snape felt a stir of irritation, and said dryly, "Obviously not, as I saw them in Celeste Jenkins' memories up until seven years ago."

At that Dumbledore gave a sad smile. "Perhaps I should have said, they were _thought_ to have died. Very confusing times, of course. The full count of those killed by Voldemort and his followers wasn't completely known until after his defeat. Bettina and Avery and their daughter disappeared right around then, with no trace of them ever found. Everyone thought that the family was yet another casualty."

"Apparently not."

"Apparently," Albus agreed, then ran a speculative finger along the length of his beard. "It was a tragedy, of course, for everyone expected great things from their daughter."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "How so?"

"Bettina and Avery used to joke that they had to end up together, because of what they were." Apparently noticing Snape's lifted eyebrow, Dumbledore went on, "He was the seventh son of a seventh son...and she was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. Very potent combination."

Having witnessed Celeste Jenkins' remarkable gifts at Divination first hand, Snape knew he couldn't argue with that. "And what of the pain she experienced? How could she have felt the attack on Harry Potter...assuming that's what actually happened?"

"As to that, I'm not sure how...but I have no doubt she did feel it. Probably fear of the connection between them is what led Avery and Bettina to hide their daughter away."

"But why?" Snape demanded. "The Dark Lord had been vanquished, as far as anyone knew. Wouldn't they have known it was safe?"

"But Voldemort wasn't vanquished, was he?" For a second Dumbledore looked almost grim. "Perhaps they knew that...perhaps Celeste still was able to sense his presence. Of course we'll never know for sure, since the Cadogans are both gone now. And after all, what they did with their daughter wasn't so very different from what I myself did with Harry."

"She still would have had a family that knew of her existence, wouldn't she?" argued Snape. "Look at all those fools of relatives the girl had standing around, with nothing better to do than attend a birthday party. Surely someone would have said something by now?"

Dumbledore shook his head, then gave Snape a piercing glance. "Surely you know as well as I do, Severus, that there are ways to make sure that large groups of people keep a vital secret."

Of course. "The Fidelius charm?"

With a nod, Dumbledore lifted the Pensieve and replaced it in its cabinet. "You don't mind if I hold on to this memory for a while longer, do you?" he asked, and then, after Snape had murmured his assent, continued, "No doubt either Bettina or Avery was the actual Secret-Keeper, and once they were both dead there would be no way for anyone to reveal Celeste's identity, or indeed approach her. Very probably part of the charm included a vow to keep away from her so that she could never be connected with the wizarding world."

And now Snape had destroyed the isolation her parents had died still protecting. Inadvertently, of course, but he wondered how much damage had been done by even his limited amount of meddling. "So what now?"he asked, his voice sounding brittle even to himself. "Should I go back and finish off the Obliviation process?"

"I'm afraid that particular potion can't be put back into the bottle," replied Dumbledore. "While I can understand Avery and Bettina's reasoning, I'm afraid I can't condone what they did. Better that Celeste should have been trained here, as young Harry Potter has been, so that she would have had the resources to join the fight against Voldemort." Although his face remained sober, a sudden twinkle caught in the Headmaster's eyes. "But since that chance has come and gone, I can only hope that you will have better luck teaching her Occlumency than you did Harry."

"Teaching her -- "

"Yes, that, and as many defensive spells as you deem necessary. I can think of no one better suited to the task than Hogwarts' new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

It took a few seconds for the meaning of Dumbledore's words to sink in. Could it be possible that after so many years --

"Don't look so surprised, Severus," Dumbledore said. "With all that's happened so far -- with all that we face -- you are of course the logical choice."

Perhaps he should have felt pleased. But instead Snape felt a rush of anger and resentment. Yes, of course, only now was he considered the "logical choice," now that every other viable candidate had gotten himself killed or otherwise rendered incapable of assuming the position of Defense professor. "How very kind of you," he sneered.

Instead of taking offense, Albus merely gave Snape a rueful smile and said, "Really, Severus, I'm surprised all that bile hasn't given you an ulcer by now. Do you want the job, or don't you?"

"I'll take it," Snape said, in his most ungracious tones. "And so my new position requires that I baby-sit Celeste Jenkins?"

"You are the best Occlumens I know, as well as possessing superior defensive skills. But if you're not up to it, I suppose I could contact Remus and see if he'd like to take on a bit of freelance work -- "

"No!" The strength of his outburst surprised even Snape; taking a breath, he went on, "That is, I hardly think it...advisable...to send a werewolf to train a young woman who until earlier this evening didn't even know magic existed. And Lupin isn't much of an Occlumens."

"True." Dumbledore regarded Snape carefully for a moment, then said, "I know it will be difficult, of course. You have other...claims...on your time. But I also know you will handle the matter with the utmost discretion. We have a responsibility to this young woman. Perhaps she could have remained safe and undetected, perhaps not. But now we must see she is armed for the fight ahead."

Without replying, Snape inclined his head. His thoughts already raced furiously, trying to decide the best course of action to follow, as well as the next time he thought he could safely return to Manchester. Not for a few more days, probably. There was much to do -- Celeste would need a wand --

"I can see you're already planning," murmured Dumbledore. "Perhaps you should go on back to your quarters. It is getting late."

Nodding abstractedly, Snape made his exit without saying good-bye. It wasn't until he had paused by the gargoyle in the hallway outside that he began to have the nagging suspicion Dumbledore had maneuvered him the way a Chaser might maneuver a Quaffle to score a goal. Resentment flared once again, but it was too late -- he had already agreed to become the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, as well as Celeste Jenkins' private tutor.

He could only hope that he would have more success in both endeavors than any of his predecessors had...


	6. Chapter 6

Let's all hear it for Redeemed!Snape. ;-) Or at least "please don't kill him off in Book 7" Snape. And Jenn, it's funny that you mentioned that about Yoda, because, well...you'll see. Great minds think alike, I guess. :-P

* * *

Six

_From the diary of Celeste Jenkins_

June 29, 1996

So the mysterious Mr. Snape is a wizard. Or at least claims to be.

Actually, that's a claim I can't really refute, because after he had gone I went back into the front parlor and retrieved the crystal ball he had somehow managed to make appear on the coffee table there, and then hurried to the reading room. Although I had seen the thing appear with my own eyes, somehow I had thought it must be some sort of trick -- that he had a second crystal ball hidden on him somewhere and produced it through some sort of legerdemain in order to fool me into thinking he had magical powers. But when I entered the reading room I saw the little brass stand the ball usually rests on sitting there in the center of the table, quite empty. And when I lifted the ball to look at it more closely, I knew it was mine -- there's a small nick in it at what would be the equator on a globe, from the time HBC had decided the fringe on the piano scarf would make a fun toy and dragged the whole thing down onto the floor. Luckily the rug kept the crystal from shattering, but it had rolled across the floor and smacked into one of the bookcases, resulting in the tiny chip. I somehow doubted that Severus Snape would have been able to procure a crystal ball with a nick in it in exactly the same place as mine.

But of course it didn't stop there.

Not only had he told me he was a wizard, but he also quite calmly informed me that I was a witch. Now, I may have made jokes on the subject in the past -- again, just my way of coping with these odd powers I seemed to have acquired out of nowhere -- but I'd never been serious. As he apparently was. Not much of a man for a joke, this Severus Snape.

It didn't help that right after he told me I was far too old for formal schooling as a witch, I had the most unseemly urge to start giggling again -- Severus might be the human being on the planet who resembles Yoda the least, but all I could hear in my head was the little green Jedi Master insisting that Luke was far too old to begin Jedi training. I could probably put the blame for that on my father -- he'd had the oddest obsession with the Star Wars films. I still have all the tapes somewhere in a cabinet, even though I haven't had the heart to watch them after Dad died. We'd always shared that ritual. Strangely, I don't remember seeing the first two films at the cinema, even though I would have been old enough, but I do recall queuing up for hours with my father to see the third one. My memory's like that -- full of odd little missing bits, fuzzy areas that I just can't seem to bring into sharp resolution no matter what I do.

Severus' bombshell was shattering enough, I suppose, but what really bothers me the most is the feeling that for every small bit of information he gave me there was ten times as much undisclosed data floating out there, submerged and just waiting for the wrong time to appear, much like the iceberg that hit the _Titanic_. And we all know what happened to the _Titanic_.

It took me a long time to fall asleep last night.

Today I managed to pull it together a little bit, mostly because I had a lunch date with Fiona and she was bound to notice if I were preoccupied or unnaturally quiet. You can't be friends with someone for almost twelve years and not have them pick up on those sorts of things.

I'd hoped that my little scene with Severus in Topham's had gone unnoticed, but apparently not. No sooner had Fiona slid into the booth at the Old Ship where I was waiting for her than she demanded, "So what was going on with that man at Topham's last night?"

"Topham's?" I asked cautiously. I certainly wasn't above playing stupid if it put Fiona off the scent.

I should have known better. She raised an eyebrow and gave me the standard "this is Fiona you're talking to" look before replying, "Reggie said you were having quite the spat with some greasy-haired man in black at the bar around nine."

Now, I know for a fact that Fiona had a date with the new account executive at her office for that same Friday night, and you'd think she would have had more important things to worry about. But I also know that Fiona has intelligence-gathering resources that would put MI5 to shame. Affecting an air of unconcern, I said, "It wasn't anything -- just a slight difference of opinion with a client of mine."

She looked as if she had another pithy comment to make on that subject, but I was granted a slight reprieve by the arrival of the waiter, who took our orders -- salad for her, cottage pie for me -- and then disappeared again. Fiona does have a tendency to plumpness and looks on salad as her savior, whereas I seem to be able to eat pretty much anything I want without putting on a pound. Whenever Fiona asks me how I do it, I just tell her that being psychic burns a lot of calories, and for all I know that's true. I do tend to get very hungry after intense sessions and inevitably go on a cupboard rummage afterward.

But after the waiter had gone Fiona fixed me with a sharp blue eye and said, "A client."

"Yes."

"Since when do you have arguments with your clients in bars? Since when do you even _go_ into bars with your clients?"

Since never, of course, and she knew it as well as I did. But Severus had upset me so much that I didn't stop to think what I was doing -- I just went charging after him, intent on getting answers. I wasn't used to someone walking out on me like that, and my anger had made me careless.

Not sure what to say, I busied myself with the tea the waiter had set in front of me, fussing with the sugar and cream far beyond what it required.

"Are you seeing someone you don't want to tell me about?"

Ever since Alex and I had broken up, Fiona seemed to think it was her responsibility to oversee my personal life, since I apparently was doing such a bad job of it myself. No doubt she'd be very offended to learn that I had gone off and met someone on my own instead of relying on her somewhat dubious fix-ups.

"No," I said, after taking a sip of tea. "There is absolutely nothing going on between the two of us." Nothing_ romantic_, I added mentally. Of course there was something going on...I just would have been hard put to explain exactly what it was -- especially to Fiona.

She looked a little relieved at that statement. "Well, I'm glad to hear it, since Reggie made him sound fairly dodgy -- not good-looking at all, and a lot older than you to boot."

For some reason her offhand dismissal of Severus Snape irritated me to no end. After all, the man was a _wizard_...did it really matter that he didn't resemble Brad Pitt? Anyhow, I found that I liked Severus' looks. Of course he wasn't handsome, or even attractive, really, but he was...interesting. And greasy-haired? I had just assumed that he had a heavy hand with the hair gel. Besides, Fiona had never heard him speak. A girl could imagine all sorts of things she'd like said to her by a man who had a voice like that...

But I knew if I launched into a passionate defense of Severus Snape then Fiona would think something was surely going on, and that was the last thing I needed. Instead, I just helped myself to another healthy swallow of tea and said airily, "I suppose so. I don't really pay that much attention to my clients' appearance."

Which had always been the truth before -- they were clients, after all, no more than that. Alex had been an exception, but I certainly hadn't encouraged Alex. It wouldn't have been professional. But after a while he'd made it clear that he wasn't going anywhere, and it somehow seemed easier to be with him than to keep fending him off. Maybe that was why his leaving in the end had upset me so much. He'd done all the pursuing, yet once he had what he supposedly wanted, he found he couldn't deal with the situation.

I must have been frowning, for Fiona asked suddenly, "Everything all right? You look upset."

"Sorry," I replied. "I was thinking about Alex."

"Well, don't," she said severely. "Inconsiderate bastard. I thought you were well over him."

Of course I was...it had been almost two years, after all. But the nastier the breakup the longer it seems to linger in one's memory. I didn't bother saying that to Fiona; I'd cried on her shoulder over Alex enough as it was. "Oh, absolutely," I said. "He just pops in the brain every once in a while for no reason. But enough of him -- how was your date?"

And after that I could just sit back and listen to her rattle on about this Roger Hawkins person and his numerous charms, including the way his backside looked in khakis and the fact that he had a new Jag. But all the while my thoughts kept straying to Severus Snape and his miraculous powers, and I hoped that I would get to see him again in the near future. Luckily once Fiona gets going she very rarely stops for breath, so since I more or less maintained eye contact and nodded and interjected a few comments along the lines of "oh, really?" and "sounds wonderful" at appropriate intervals, I doubted that she ever noticed my heart wasn't really in listening to her description of her wonderful date.

After lunch Fiona wanted to go shopping, but I found I wasn't that interested; the weather continued murky and dank, and I just wanted to go home and put my feet up and relax. I should probably just admit here that the real reason I wanted to go home was that I didn't want to miss the possibility of another drop-in visit by Severus Snape. Somehow I doubted he was the sort of person to ring me up and leave a message on the answering machine. Fiona seemed a little disappointed, but the truth is that we don't make the best shopping companions, since I always have a clear idea of what I'm looking for and am in and out of a shop quite quickly, whereas she could happily shop for hours with no clear notion of what she wanted, just letting serendipity guide her to a new and exciting purchase. So we said good-bye in the crush of Market Street, and I called a cab, not wanting to wait for the bus.

When I got home, an owl was waiting on my doorstep.

It was quite a beautiful bird, a sleek and well-fed-looking horned owl who swiveled its head in my direction as I approached and regarded me placidly out of round golden eyes. It acted as if there were nothing strange about it sitting on the front doorstep of a row house in Manchester.

I stopped a few feet away from the bottom step and stared at it. Already my life had begun to feel like the opening chapters of _Through the Looking Glass_, but really -- an owl?

As I hesitated there, feeling somewhat flummoxed, I heard someone approach. I turned and saw Reggie standing on the sidewalk, watching the bird with vaguely puzzled dark eyes. Probably he was on his way to start the early afternoon shift at Topham's.

"You got an owl on your doorstep," he said helpfully.

"Thanks, Reg, I can see that,"I answered, wondering how much of the ganj Reggie had smoked that afternoon before drifting in to work.

"Bit strange, don't you think?"

"Erm...well...maybe it's hurt," I hedged. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a flash of something pale against the bird's left leg, and I slowly swiveled my head to get a clearer look. It appeared to be a piece of paper or parchment rolled up and tied on with a black ribbon. What the hell?

But even as my brain tried to wrap itself around that particular bit of information, realization dawned. It had to have come from Severus. Who but a wizard would send a message tied to an owl's leg? _After all_, I thought shakily, _it's not as if I gave him my e-mail address..._

"Want me to call someone?" Reggie asked.

"No -- no," I said hurriedly. The last thing I needed was for anyone to get close enough to notice the bit of paper tied to the bird. "I can take care of it -- I'm used to birds -- my mother used to have a Norwegian Blue -- "

Fortunately, Reggie didn't seem to notice that I was babbling, and he hadn't known me long enough to realize that my family had never owned a bird, Norwegian Blue or otherwise. With a fatalistic lift of his shoulders, he said, "Right then. Better be goin' -- think I'm late." And he sauntered off toward Topham's, not giving me or the owl a second glance.

With him safely out of the picture, I could return my attention to the bird. It really did seem quite tame; it had sat there the whole time watching me with a sort of disinterested curiosity. At least, I hoped it was tame. I didn't feel quite up to explaining an owl bite to the staff of the local emergency room.

Walking slowly and carefully, I closed the distance between the owl and myself, then squatted down so that I was more or less at eye level with it. "Is that for me?" I asked it, then felt like a complete fool. But once you've been told there's magic in the world, it's hard to figure out what the boundaries might be. For all I knew, the bird could talk -- or might be Severus Snape in disguise.

But the owl just hooted softly, and lifted its left leg, as if encouraging me to take the piece of parchment attached there. Now that I was close enough, I could see that it really was parchment, or at least a type of paper that mimicked it. With hesitant fingers, I reached up and untied the ribbon, still not sure whether I was going to get pecked for my trouble. After I had retrieved the note, however, the owl just placed its foot back down on the top step and watched me as I unrolled the crackly parchment.

The handwriting was black and slanting, completely unfamiliar, but it seemed so distinctly Severus Snape that I didn't even need the scrawled "S" beneath the main portion of the note to tell me it had come from him. It contained only a few lines.

_You need several items that cannot be obtained in Manchester. Clear your schedule Monday afternoon. I'm taking you shopping_. _I shall Apparate into your front parlor so as to avoid notice. _After the "S" came a postscript: _Muggle clothing is frowned on where we're going. Attempt to find something suitable._

"What the bloody hell is a Muggle?" I asked the bird.

It blinked. Then it suddenly spread its wings, flapped them once, and took off, startling me so much that I lost my balance and actually fell over on my backside. For a second all I could do was stare up at its departing form from my ignominious position on the front walk, and then I hurriedly got to my feet and looked around, hoping that no one had seen me just land on my posterior. But although there were some people out and about on the street, nobody seemed to be looking in my direction.

I jammed the note in my purse and then rooted around for my keys. As usual they had migrated to the very bottom of my bag, but after about a minute of scrabbling I located them and let myself in the house.

HBC sat in the center of the runner that lay on the hallway floor, her tail switching violently back and forth. No doubt she'd sensed the owl that had sat on just the other side of the front door; the mail slot had been installed somewhat sloppily and tended to let in quite a bit of street noise -- and some lovely drafts as well.

"It's taken itself off, so calm down," I said. "As if you'd know what to do with it even if you somehow managed to get the better of such a whopping great bird." I had always counted myself fortunate that HBC was far too lazy to bother with chasing mice -- disposing of the sorts of "presents" many cats left for their masters wasn't exactly high on my list of new and exciting things to do with my spare time.

If the cat could have sniffed, I have no doubt she would have. Instead, she rolled halfway over on her side and began licking a rear haunch as if that were the only thing of importance in the universe.

"That's what I thought," I said, and continued on into the front parlor, then dropped my purse on the coffee table and fished out Severus' note. "Nervy bastard, isn't he?" I muttered, after giving the cryptic missive a second read. "Not so much as a 'by your leave.'"

Not, I have to admit, that my Monday schedule was terribly packed. Most people don't like the possibility of getting bad news on Mondays -- I suppose it's too much of a shock to the system on top of having to go back to work after the weekend -- so I had only one client. And I can't say I'd regret having to postpone her appointment; Emily Peters' sessions tended to consist of me confirming her suspicions about the philandering of her husband, followed by lengthy discussions as to why she couldn't possibly leave him, ending up with a protracted meeting of minds with my tissue box. I suppose I should be more compassionate, but really -- how much evidence does one person need to realize that a man is a complete bastard?

"'Muggle clothing,'" I mused. I had to assume that Severus was taking me someplace wizard-y, so deductive reasoning would suggest that he wanted me to dress like a witch; ergo, "Muggle" must mean nonmagical people. Or at least I hoped that was what he meant. As to Apparating -- well, it sounded somewhat dangerous. I planned to be elsewhere in my house at three o'clock on Monday so he didn't Apparate right on top of me. Or into me. Or through me. Or whatever else might go wrong that I couldn't think of at the moment because I didn't know what the hell he was talking about in the first place.

For a second I thought about ringing up Fiona and seeing if she'd gotten home yet -- no doubt she'd be happy to hear that I'd changed my mind about shopping after all. Then I thought of how I could ever possibly explain to her that I had to find the sort of outfit one might need for twirling about on stage and singing "Edge of Seventeen," and decided that probably wasn't such a good idea. It would be very out of character, and Fiona might start asking probing questions again.

I've always eschewed the sort of over-the-top bohemian looks commonly associated with psychics, palm readers, and what-have-you. While I will confess to owning some somewhat funky articles of clothing, I always match them up with jeans and plain shoes. Likewise with jewelry; I have a few good pieces that belonged to my mother, but I rarely wear them, and never when I'm doing a reading. They still have some faint psychic echoes attached to them, and I don't need the distraction.

No, I'll just have to go shopping on my own. Luckily Oldham Street and its environs have plenty of funky little boutiques where I figure I can find something "suitable." Too bad Severus hadn't been a little more specific as to exactly what "suitable" means, but at the very least I'm guessing it's not blue jeans. I think I caught him giving my clothes a niggling, narrow-eyed look once or twice. Not that I can blame him -- I was a complete fright last night. It figures that the one Friday I decided to stay in and let myself go he'd show up. Anyhow, I figure he probably expects me to wear some sort of dress.

And if he doesn't like what I choose, then I'll just let him know that next time he can draw me a picture, or include a cutting from _Vogue_ or something like that. If nothing else, it'll be fun to watch him scowl at me a bit more.

I find I'm getting used to it...


	7. Chapter 7

Well, I'd hoped to have this chapter up earlier than this, but work's been a bear this week. Thank you again for the reviews...they definitely make a crappy day a lot better! ;-)

* * *

Seven

Severus Snape Apparated into Celeste Jenkins' front parlor at precisely three o'clock on Monday afternoon, eliciting a startled yowl from her wretched cat before it bolted from the room altogether. Smiling thinly, he looked around but saw no evidence of the cat's mistress. However, he deduced that Celeste must be home -- he spied her battered brown suede bag sitting on a table across the room, with her house keys dumped unceremoniously on top.

"What the devil was that noise?" came her voice from down the hallway. Snape heard the click-clack of her heels against the wood floor, and then she paused in the entrance to the parlor, looking at him in some consternation.

He'd opened his mouth to make some sort of illuminating point about Apparating, then stood there, gazing at her for a few seconds before he remembered that staring at a female while looking like a gaffed fish probably wasn't the sort of impression he wished to make. But really, he'd had no idea she could look so -- so --

Well, beautiful.

Oh, he'd noted that Celeste was a pretty girl; although he had little enough to do with women, he wasn't blind, after all. But she'd presented a somewhat rumpled appearance the first two times he'd seen her, and he had assumed that she was the sort who didn't trouble much about her looks...an assumption that apparently had been quite wrong.

She'd done something to her hair, and it lay in long, loose waves over her shoulders, looking almost auburn against her black dress. And it _was_ a dress, Snape noted thankfully, not jeans. He still couldn't comprehend the odd impulse that drove Muggle women to dress in trousers. But then he also noticed the low scooped neckline of the gown, the curve of the breasts beneath it, and the contrasting slenderness of her waist. He'd thought he was well past such feelings -- he'd spent almost the last twenty years repressing them -- but the wave of desire that hit him as he looked at her was as strong as it was unexpected.

"So?" she said, and spread out her arms to show off the long bell-shaped sleeves. "I told the girl in the shop I needed something positively Stevie Nicks. Is it all right?"

_Look at her face, you idiot!_ he thought fiercely. Dragging his eyes upward, he stared at Celeste blankly for a second, wondering who the hell Stevie Nicks was. "It'll do," he said, his tone sounding curt even to himself. But it had been so long since he'd given ungrudging approval for anything he wasn't quite sure how to go about it.

If he had wanted to nitpick, he could have pointed out that most witches reserved that sort of neckline for dressy functions in private homes; at least, most of the women he'd observed in Diagon Alley tended to be far more buttoned up. But he was also forced to admit to himself that currently he was enjoying the view very much. Besides, he'd brought along a spare cloak for Celeste, as he hadn't been sure whether she'd be able to procure one -- if nothing else, it would help to cover up some of the more distracting portions of her anatomy. One of the girls in his House had left the cloak behind when she departed for the summer; he couldn't be certain, but he guessed it might have belonged to Millicent Bulstrode, whose parents were quite wealthy. Privately he thought the black velvet garment with its emerald-green silk lining would do much better on Celeste than it ever could have on square-jawed, sallow Millicent.

For a second Celeste looked somewhat disappointed by his apparent lack of response, as if she'd hoped for a better reaction than the one he'd given her, but then she forced a smile and said, giving him an appraising glance, "That's quite the ensemble. Is that standard wizard garb?"

He looked down at himself. The tight black buttoned coat and sweeping robes had been a part of himself for so many years that he had long since ceased thinking about them. "There's no such thing," he replied. "I think you'll find quite as much variety in the clothing of wizards as you would in the Muggle world. More, probably, given your predilection for..." he paused, then said, the word dripping disdain, "denim."

"If you say so."Her green eyes gleamed a bit; obviously she refused to take offense. Then she inquired, "So what was that noise, anyway? It sounded like an air gun going off."

"Simple Apparation," Snape replied, relieved to be back on familiar territory. "Displacement of air as the person Apparating arrives on the scene."

"So you just popped in here, like a genie out of a bottle?"

"The principles are somewhat different, but -- " He caught her amused look, then said waspishly, "It's quite advanced magic. Not until students reach their sixth year are they trained how to Apparate."

"So are you going to teach me how to do that?"

"Probably not."

Crossing her arms, Celeste gave him an annoyed look. "You're not going to teach me how to Apparate...you're not going to teach me how to make potions...what precisely _are_ you going to teach me, Severus?"

"As I told you previously," Snape replied, emphasizing the last word and trying -- with incomplete success -- not to sneer, "we will focus on Occlumency, the shielding of your thoughts and memories from others. I will also teach you some elementary defensive spells -- though I sincerely hope you will never need to use them." _If you're even able_, he thought. _Divination or no, after all these years lying fallow your abilities in other areas may be sadly lacking._

"Am I in that much need of protection?"

"You do appear to be rather trusting." Raising an eyebrow, he went on, "You did allow me into your home without asking very many questions, after all."

Instead of taking offense, she appeared almost amused. With the usual small smile playing about her mouth, she asked, "Do you think so little of me, Severus? I can sense somehow when people mean me harm...and I felt no such ill intentions from you."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed." Her expression grew sober, and Snape watched as she played with the lace edging on one voluminous sleeve. It was a nervous gesture, and one unlike her. "Luckily, I've only run into that sort of thing twice. The first time was the ex-boyfriend of one of my clients -- he'd been using her as his punching bag, but the thing that finally got her to clear out was me telling her that I'd seen him throttle her little dog and throw it in the dumpster behind their flat."

Snape made a disgusted noise low in the back of his throat, and she nodded, her delicate face uncommonly grim. "Quite. So he found out somehow that she'd left because of what I'd told her, and he came looking for me. But I could feel the wrongness of him even as he came up the front walk, so of course I wouldn't open the door. He pounded and yelled until the McDonnells next door called the police. They hauled him off for disturbing the peace or some such, and I haven't seen him since -- or felt him hanging around. But it was still a little frightening."

To say the least. Snape hadn't really thought of the possible ramifications of giving out the sort of psychic insights Celeste offered, but he supposed she should count herself lucky that she'd only had one such ugly incident to deal with. He knew all too well the sorts of cruelties that went on between men and women behind closed doors...

"And the other?" he asked, pushing that thought away before the bitter memories could rise too far from their burial place in the depths of his mind.

Celeste cast a sidelong glance at the front window, almost as if she expected to see someone standing outside on the walk, looking in. Then her gaze slid back to him, and he was surprised to see something approaching fear in her eyes. "I don't know," she said quietly, after an uncomfortable pause. "I don't know what it was. Just a feeling of -- of malice. Something cloudy and murderous. It lingered outside for some time, and then it just sort of drifted away. And I know it wasn't just me sensing it -- HBC's hair was standing on end."

"HBC?"

"The cat," she replied. "For 'Helena Bonham Carter.'"

"Ah," Snape said, although he had no idea who or what Celeste was talking about. As to the rest -- well, it was disturbing, true, but at least the girl had had the sense to stay inside where she was relatively safe. Could it have been one of the Death Eaters, following the rumor of a young Muggle who was more than she seemed? If that were the case, Snape didn't know what would have stayed the hand of any of the Death Eaters he knew, save for the fact that Celeste lived on a fairly busy street, and even the more audacious of Voldemort's followers tended to work in the shadows whenever possible. All the more reason that she should learn to defend herself as soon as possible.

"But enough of that," Celeste said briskly, and she lifted her chin a little, as if defying the unpleasant recollections to take up any more of her time. "You said we were going shopping?"

"Yes. To a place called Diagon Alley, where we must purchase you a wand."

You'd think she was twelve years old and had just been told she was getting a new broom for Christmas. Her eyes lit up, and she said, "Really? A wand? For doing magic?"

"Well, they're not for stirring sauces," he said sourly.

"You must terrify your students," she remarked. "Such a scowl! Do you practice it in the mirror every morning while you shave?"

His first instinct was to intensify the forbidding frown that seemed to be permanently etched on his brow these days, but that, he decided would be playing right into her hands. Instead, he replied, with an evenness of tone that probably would have shocked most of the staff and students at Hogwarts, "I don't look in the mirror much." _Why bother?_ he thought. _It's not as if looking at my reflection is going to improve it..._

The dimple flickered in her cheek as she appeared to concede him the point. "So, then. Diagon Alley. I take it we're not driving?"

"Hardly." He paused for a second, then said, "We'll be Apparating."

"I thought you said I couldn't Apparate."

"Not on your own, no," Snape replied. "We shall be doing what is known as Side-Along Apparition. I shall perform the actual spell, and you will need to hold tightly to my arm."

At that statement she smiled slightly, but said nothing.

Snape wasn't sure if he wanted to know what might be going through her mind. Did she think that he had come up with this method of travel just so she would have to cling to his arm? "The sensation can be...unpleasant," he went on. "But it will only last for a few seconds." He undraped the cloak from his arm and handed it to her. "You should put this on. It's been quite damp in London."

Celeste took the cloak from him without comment, but he could have sworn he saw her give him the slightest of winks before she fastened it demurely at her throat, covering up the distracting décolleté. "So Diagon Alley's in London?"

"Yes."

Looking thoughtful, she went to her purse and pulled a much smaller black velvet pouch out of the recesses of the brown suede bag. "How much are wands, anyway?" she inquired, drawing out a battered black leather wallet and beginning to stuff a series of bills into the velvet pouch. "I've got about a hundred pounds here. Is that enough?"

"I'm afraid that sort of money will do you no good in Diagon Alley," Snape replied. "I will purchase the wand for you."

Celeste said immediately, "I couldn't possibly -- "

He held up a hand. "No arguments." _It's not as if I have much to spend my salary on anyway_, he thought.

With a resigned air, she said, "Very well. But you will let me feed you dinner tonight, at least."

"I assure you that's not necessary -- " he began, feeling vaguely alarmed.

"I happen to be a very good cook," Celeste said, overriding his feeble protests. "And if you continue to argue with me, I think I shall have to be offended."

And she gave him such a stern look that he decided it wasn't worth the argument. Good meals had been spotty of late, anyway -- the barely edible provisions he had on hand at Spinner's End were a far cry from the house elf–prepared food he got at Hogwarts, but he'd only been eating at the school two or three days a week since the summer term began.

"We should go," he said, unable to keep the testy note out of his voice, but Celeste remained silent, closing the drawstrings on her pouch and then stepping close to him. She slid her left arm through his right, and then knotted her fingers together so that there would be no chance of her hands sliding off his arm. With her standing this close, Snape could smell a faint herbal perfume drifting up from the loose masses of her hair. His mind immediately began classifying the separate scents: chamomile, and cherry bark, and lavender...was that sandalwood? Then he shook his head at himself. What the devil did it matter which elements made up whatever Muggle shampoo she used?

Annoyed with himself, and certain that he'd wasted enough valuable time already, Snape gripped Celeste's arm firmly in his, fixed the spot just outside Ollivander's to which he intended to Apparate firmly in his mind, then turned slightly to the left. Immediately the familiar crushing pressure descended on his chest, but as always it lasted for only a fraction of a second. Then they stood on the cobbled street outside the wand shop.

Celeste had his right arm in a death grip. "You might have warned me," she gasped.

With elegant unconcern, he disengaged his limb from her clutching fingers. "I did."

"You said it was 'somewhat unpleasant.' 'Somewhat unpleasant' is someone stepping on your toe, not a steamroller parking itself on your chest."

"You'll get used to it."

"Not bloody likely," she muttered, but then she shook herself slightly, like a cat that had just come in from a rainstorm, and looked up at him. "What now?"

"In here," Snape said, pointing to the narrow front door to Ollivander's shop, which swung outward on his unspoken command.

He saw her set her jaw slightly at the door opening with seemingly no one touching it, but she lifted her chin and marched in as he followed a pace or two behind.

As always, the interior was dim, the half-hearted foggy light of this dreary summer barely penetrating the narrow, half-covered windows. Shelves and shelves of wands, each encased in its own rectangular box, surrounded them. From somewhere in the back room a thin voice called out, "Yes, yes! A moment!"

Snape waited in some impatience while Celeste looked around, avid curiosity gleaming in her dark green eyes. Then Mr. Ollivander stepped out from between two rows of shelves, fastening the Potions master and his charge with a pale, moon-eyed stare. He blinked several times at Celeste, as if not quite sure what to make of her presence, and then looked back over at Snape.

He knew he had to make some sort of introductions, but there was no need for superfluous chit-chat. "Mr. Ollivander, this is Miss Jenkins. She has need of a wand."

Ollivander again fixed the young woman with his watery gray eyes, then gave a quick, furtive look over at Snape.

_No doubt wondering what a woman like that would be doing being seen in public with me_, Snape thought sourly, but he only narrowed his eyes slightly and waited.

"A replacement, no doubt?" Ollivander asked delicately, but although Celeste shot him a quick, confused look, at least she had the sense to say nothing, but merely produced one of her brighter smiles.

It was probably the smile that did it. Radiance like that probably hadn't been seen in Ollivander's shop for a good many years, and the little man gave her a rusty-looking grin of his own. "Something light, I think," he said. "Birch...beech..." And, mumbling to himself, he disappeared back between the dusty shelves.

"Why did he think I needed a replacement?" Celeste whispered.

"Because no one your age is buying a wand for the first time," Snape replied. "Students receive their wands before they start their first year. Occasionally they do get damaged or lost, but let us hope that does not happen with you, Miss Jenkins."

He could see her expel an exasperated breath. "Celeste," she reminded him, with a narrow-eyed look of her own.

No point in explaining to her that he preferred to think of everyone by their last names; it was a distancing mechanism, a way to regard them as not quite individuals. So much easier to dislike "Potter," the boy favored by teachers and students alike, the Boy Who Lived, the boy who carried the name of his hated father, than to consider that he might be simply Harry, a youth fearful of the fate he faced, who struggled with all the normal cares of schoolwork and social pressures, who had been orphaned at an even earlier age than Severus Snape...

Memory was a black ocean whose waters he had no desire to breech. Snape gave Celeste a cool glance, complete with slightly lifted eyebrow, hoping that would quell her high spirits. Instead, she gave him a raised eyebrow of her own, then stuck her tongue out at him before placing one hand over her mouth to cover up a sudden fit of the giggles.

Well, really. You'd think the girl was a silly fifth-year instead of a young woman of twenty-six. He tried to remember the last time someone had stuck their tongue out at him and had failed miserably. But there was something infectious about her stifled laughter, something that made him remember one of the few times he been in on the pranks of his fellow Slytherins...something about an explosive mixture of hundreds of slugs and a pack of fizzing Whizz-bees on the steps to the Gryffindor common room...

"Aha!" said Ollivander, coming back into view, looking a bit cobwebby but carrying a slender box of white cardboard. "I think I have just the thing. Beech, with the wing feather of a griffin."

_Naturally_, Snape thought, not without some bitterness. _Miss Jenkins would of course have been sorted into Gryffindor..._

Celeste took the pale, slender wand from Ollivander and held it uncertainly between her thumb and forefinger. She shot Snape a beseeching look, and he decided to take pity on her.

"Just a small flick," he advised. "See if you can raise that stack of empty boxes over by the window -- "

Celeste traced a delicate arabesque in the air with her wand, a half-doubtful look on her face. Immediately the boxes exploded outward in all directions. Snape barely had enough time to raise his own wand and mutter a Shield charm before the flying cardboard shrapnel rained down around them.

"Oops," she said.

"Excellent," beamed Mr. Ollivander. "It likes you."

"What would it have done if it _hadn't_ liked me?" she asked Snape in an undertone.

"You don't want to know," he replied. Then he fished in his pocket for a few Galleons and laid them down on the counter top. "Wrap that one up for us, Ollivander." Best to keep the bloody thing safely contained until he could get Celeste someplace a bit less public and begin to show her the basics of wand control.

Again with that half-perplexed, half-curious gaze, the wand-maker glanced from Celeste to Snape and back again, then shook his head slightly and gathered up the gleaming gold coins. After he had secreted them away someplace under the counter, he reached across and plucked the wand from Celeste's hand with a murmured, "If I may?"

She startled, then surrendered the slender beech stick, watching silently as Ollivander placed it back in its box and tied it up with a pale blue ribbon. Once he was finished he handed the box back to her with the air of bestowing a great gift. "I hope you get many years of use from it."

"Thank you, Mr. Ollivander," Celeste said. "You obviously know a great deal about wands."

"Oh -- " And Ollivander waved a hand. "The wand does the choosing, as I always say. Haven't given out that combination for a great many years. Last one went to a Gryffindor girl...she disappeared during the first war with You Know Who..." He trailed off, focusing his myopic eyes on Celeste as if really seeing her for the first time. "You have a look of her -- what was her name? Wooster -- "

"That will do," Snape cut in. The last thing he needed was for Mr. Ollivander to let fall any more startling revelations. Bad enough that he had to mention Voldemort and the war; Snape had hoped he might have been able to avoid that particular subject for a while longer. "Celeste, we have other places to go." And he looped his arm through hers and firmly hauled her out of the shop, even as her lips parted, no doubt to ask Ollivander what on earth he had been talking about.

Once they were outside she dug her heels into the cobbled paving stones, resisting his efforts to pull her along any further, and gave him an irritated look. "What the hell was that all about? What did he mean, a war? And who's 'You-Know-Who'?"

"Not here," he replied immediately, casting a swift glance up the street. Luckily, he saw no one he recognized; the return of Voldemort had kept the less hardy souls indoors, and it was far too early in the summer for the throngs of returning students and their parents to choke Diagon Alley in their quest for books and parchment and school robes.

"Is there a pub?" Celeste asked, and although she still looked angry, Snape thought he could see a quick light dance in her eyes. No doubt she was recalling his hasty escape to Topham's of last week.

The Leaky Cauldron would not have been his first choice in deciding where to take her, but at least it had several dark corner booths where they could converse quietly and, he hoped, escape notice.

"This way," he said with ill grace, dropping her arm and moving quickly down the street. With spiteful satisfaction he noticed that she had to work to keep up with him; the cobbles beneath their feet did not lend themselves to easy walking for someone in heels.

At this odd hour of the afternoon, the Leak Cauldron held only a few occupants, including a group of witches in garish purple and vermilion hats sharing an early tea at a table in the far corner. They glanced up briefly as he and Celeste entered.

By now he was used to the looks of startled recognition and the inevitable pall of disapproval that followed. But then the witches transferred their scrutiny to Celeste. A few seconds of startled speculation appeared to follow, and then the coven bent their heads together and began whispering furiously.

_Probably just gave them something to gossip about for the next fortnight_, he thought with an inner smirk, but he never paused in his progress toward the booth in the darkest corner of the pub. Without comment he settled down onto one bench, then watched as Celeste set the box containing her wand down on the table top and slid into place opposite him.

"Butterbeer?" Snape asked.

"What's that?"

From the neutral tone of her voice, he surmised she was still angry with him. "A popular wizard drink. I find it far too sweet, but -- "

"I'll have whatever you're having," she said immediately.

"Two glasses of elf-made wine," he said, and Tom, the proprietor, appeared immediately, setting two goblets filled with deep blood-colored liquid in front of them. Once he had finished his task, he left as quickly as he came.

"How did he do that?" Celeste asked in some awe, looking after the innkeeper's departing form. "It was like -- like -- "

Dryly, Snape inquired, "Like magic?"

A faint blush rose in her cheeks. "Well, yes. Sorry I sound like such an idiot -- it's just that all of this takes a bit of getting used to."

He lifted his goblet and took a sip. "I expect it would."

She raised her own glass and drank hesitantly, her expression of caution turning to one of amazement. "That's just about the best thing I've ever tasted."

"I will admit some partiality myself."

But after she had allowed herself another small swallow of wine her expression sobered. "Are you going to give me some answers now?"

Snape had not been looking forward to this moment, but he had never been one to shirk an unpleasant duty. Still, he saw no reason why he couldn't cover the less unpleasant subjects first. "I believe Mr. Ollivander may have been referring to your mother."

"My mother? How could he have possibly known my -- " The words trailed off as Celeste fastened him with sharp-eyed look. "Are you telling me my mother was a _witch_?"

"Yes."

"But why wouldn't she have said anything -- and what about my father?"

"Your father was a wizard."

"A wizard?" She shook her head slowly, as if in an effort to keep this last bit of information from settling in her brain. "He wasn't a wizard -- he was a _chartered accountant_, for God's sake -- "

Dumbledore's words came back to Snape then. "A very gifted Arithmancy student," the Headmaster had said of Celeste's father. And then the poor bastard had had to spend a good chunk of his life in the modern-day equivalent of a counting house. Then again, he'd made his choice. Everyone had to live with the consequences of their decisions.

"A wizard," Snape repeated firmly. "Your parents chose to live in the Muggle world, and to keep you unaware of their magical abilities -- and yours."

Celeste's slender fingers played with the stem of the goblet that sat on the table before her. After a long moment she looked up and met Snape's gaze with a puzzled, sorrowful look. "But why?" she asked finally.

"As to that, I'm not entirely certain. But I think they were trying to protect you."

"Protect me from what?"

That was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? And Snape himself knew so little; even the few bits and pieces he thought pointed at the truth were more the result of speculation and educated guesswork than any real knowledge. "As to that, I'm not sure. Their secrets died with them, after all. But I believe they were trying to keep you hidden from -- " He hesitated, knowing that he did not dare utter Voldemort's name aloud here. " -- from the one whom Ollivander mentioned."

"You Know Who?" she asked immediately, her voice carrying enough that the witches across the room left off their gossiping and cast a series of shocked stares in their direction.

"Quiet," Snape commanded, then continued, pitching his voice so low that Celeste was forced to lean across the table and strain to hear his words, "Ollivander also spoke of a war, a war that took place between the followers of You-Know-Who and the rest of the wizarding world fifteen years ago. I needn't go into the details now, but know that many people died. Others were tortured and maimed." He saw her flinch at those words and wondered what this fresh-faced girl would do if he told her that once he had been counted among those followers, had participated in their iniquities. Fighting down a wave of self-loathing, he went on mercilessly, "This Dark Wizard would have had a keen interest in finding someone with your gifts -- your skill at Legilimency, your talent for Divination. And so we -- _I_ -- believe that your parents erased your memories of your early childhood and completely removed themselves from the wizarding world, raising you in a normal Muggle household where you would never be found." Snape paused then, wondering whether he should reveal exactly what had actually occurred during that first reading Celeste had given him, then decided against it. Time for revelations of that nature later.

For a long moment she said nothing, but merely stared at him, her face pale in the gloomy recesses of the booth where they sat. Then she asked, her voice flat, sounding quite unlike herself, "Did he win?"

"What?" Snape wasn't quite sure what she was driving at.

"This Dark Wizard you mentioned. Did he win the war?"

"No," he replied, again wondering how much he should tell her. But she would discover the truth soon enough. "We thought he had been defeated, and he did go into hiding for many years. But he's just come back into his power, and is gathering his followers once again."

Again that charged silence, as Snape watched the unnatural stillness of her features, the tension in the slender hands as they lay on the age-darkened oak of the table. He could understand her being worried, frightened, or upset, but somehow he sensed something else was wrong.

"What is it?" he asked, surprising himself somewhat with the gentleness of the question.

"Oh," she said, and gave him a humorless smile. "It's just that -- well..."

"Yes?"

Celeste looked away briefly, then appeared to gather herself. She took a deep breath.

"It's just that I dream of him sometimes..." she said, in a small, thin voice.


	8. Chapter 8

Well, I'm back. Thank you to everyone for your reviews -- they just make my day (and especially to those intrepid souls who actually hunt me down in my Live Journal when ff.n is being temperamental!) And Anna, I wouldn't exactly call poor Snape lecherous...guys look. Even uptight Potions masters. ;-)

* * *

Eight

The wine seemed to sour in Snape's mouth. "You _what_?"

Celeste wouldn't meet his eyes. "They're just...nightmares. Dreams I've been having off and on for about the past five years."

"And you were going to tell me this precisely when?"

The color flared in her pale cheeks. "Well, how was I supposed to know they were anything besides bad dreams? And no matter what you may think, Severus Snape, I don't go around spilling every detail of my personal life to someone I've known for as short a time as I have you!"

Snape wanted to curse at her for being so simple-minded, but the logical part of his brain told him that of course there had been no way for Celeste to know that these dreams -- whatever they might contain -- were anything but simply that. People had nightmares all the time.

He certainly did.

"Tell me," he said.

Celeste still looked flushed and upset, but she answered calmly enough. "There's not much to tell. The dreams are always dark...sometimes I hear a man's voice, thin and whispery, but I can't understand what he's saying. It doesn't sound like English. Something slithering in the darkness...I've never been able to see it clearly, but it looks almost like an enormous snake. But the worst part is his eyes." With a shudder, she pulled the cloak more closely about herself, as if the memory had chilled her to the very bones. "No human being can have eyes like that."

Unfortunately, one could, although lately Snape had begun to wonder how much of Voldemort could even be called human any longer. But what did it mean, precisely? Did she dream of Voldemort simply because he was the vortex around which all possible futures for wizard-kind swirled? Or was it something darker, some link between them, as there was between Potter and the Dark Lord?

Attempting to keep the worry out of his voice, he asked, "Do you have any sense of...participating...in these dreams? Or do you merely observe?"

A frown creased her forehead as she appeared to consider his question. "I -- I hadn't thought about it that way. But it feels more like...watching. Somehow I never get a sense of myself in the dreams."

Snape didn't want to give in to the relief that flowed through him at her words. Just because it didn't sound as if she had a direct connection to Voldemort the way Harry Potter did didn't mean she wasn't still in danger.

"You're worried," Celeste said abruptly. "I can feel it coming off you like shimmers off hot asphalt."

Had he been broadcasting that much? Usually he was far more careful than that, but there was something about this young woman which made him let down his guard. That would never do. "It is a matter of some concern," he said, in his most neutral tone.

"'Some concern'?" she echoed. "Exactly how much?"

"As to that, I don't know. Perhaps it is simply another facet of your gift for Divination. Prophecy has never been my area of interest."

Looking troubled, she settled back in her seat. "Then why -- " she began.

A booming voice cut her off. "Professor Snape!"

_Oh, no_, thought Snape, even as he cast a resigned glance upward to see Rubeus Hagrid's homely whiskered face staring down at him with an expression of doltish puzzlement. "Hagrid," he said smoothly, his voice belying none of his internal irritation.

The half-giant apparently noticed Snape's companion for the first time, and Hagrid's eyebrows shot up as he took in Celeste and the two half-empty goblets of elf-wine that sat before her and the Potions master. The look of confusion slowly morphed into one of half-comprehension, followed soon after by a rather insulting incredulous stare.

"I'm not interruptin' anythin', am I?" asked Hagrid, with what Snape recognized wearily as the gamekeeper's version of a knowing wink.

"Not at all," he said, although his tone indicated otherwise. "Miss Jenkins, this is Rubeus Hagrid, a fellow staff member of mine from Hogwarts. Hagrid, this is Miss Jenkins." He did not bother to supply her first name, or any other identifying information. Let Hagrid think what he wanted.

Celeste had been staring at Hagrid slightly open-mouthed, but she recovered herself and extended a hand. "Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Hagrid," she said.

Her slender fingers were completely engulfed by Hagrid's huge paw. "Nah, just Hagrid, miss," he replied. "No need to bother with 'mister' with me. An' what brings yer to Diagon Alley?"

She cast a quick glance at Snape, as if unsure as to which reply she should give. "A bit of shopping," she said.

"Oh, sure, yeah, it's the place fer it," Hagrid agreed, but again he looked from Celeste's face to Snape's and back again, as if his brain were incapable of processing the fact that the dour Potions master might be capable of entertaining a female.

"Business of the Headmaster," said Snape, giving the oaf a quelling glance. Maybe that would be sufficient to silence him. He had no use for Hagrid at the best of times, and his presence now was even more unwelcome than usual.

"Oh, yeah, a' course." Hagrid nodded, even though his beady brown eyes narrowed slightly, possibly in an attempt to calculate the likelihood of any business of Dumbledore's involving a young, pretty, and completely unknown witch. "Just droppin' in to have a word with Tom 'ere -- he's always got his ear to the pavement, as they say." He nodded at Celeste. "Very nice to make yer acquaintance, Miss Jenkins."

"Likewise," she said, still staring up at him wide-eyed.

Hagrid inclined his head toward Snape. "Professor -- be seein' yer back at school soon." And he lumbered off in the direction of the bar.

Snape didn't bother to reply, but merely nodded so slightly that it was barely an acknowledgment. Well, that did it. He knew he couldn't continue to speak with Celeste here -- not when that pointless lump might overhear their conversation.

"Who was that?" she whispered. "He's so -- so -- " Words apparently failed her.

"He's a half-giant," Snape said shortly. "He works at the same school as I. Shall we?" He stood.

But Celeste remained seated, staring over at Hagrid's hulking physique as he towered over Tom the barkeep's unimpressive form. "A -- did you say 'a half-giant'?"

"The magical world contains far more than just witches and wizards," replied Snape. "But we can discuss this further elsewhere."

Finally she seemed to get the point. She rose, asking, "Where are we going now?"

"Back to Manchester." Frankly, right then Celeste's homely living room seemed to be the safest place for the both of them.

Disappointment rose in her eyes. "So soon? But it looked as if there were so many other shops -- "

"A wand was our only order of business," he cut in. "The rest of Diagon Alley's wares are unnecessary for our purposes."

Celeste looked as if she would have liked to argue, but instead she merely raised the goblet of wine to her lips and drained the remainder of the liquid inside. "I certainly wasn't going to let that go to waste," she said tartly in response to his disapproving glare.

Not bothering with a reply, he left his own half-finished goblet on the table as a sort of protest against the cavalier way in which she had treated the elf-made liquor. Then he stalked out the rear entrance, leaving Celeste to hurry after him.

"You don't like him very much, do you?" she asked, once Snape had paused in the shabby alleyway that was the entrance to Diagon Alley proper.

"Like whom?"

"Hagrid."

Snape lifted his shoulders. "We are fellow staff members. Whether or not I like him is a matter of supreme indifference."

Her right eyebrow assumed its usual tilt. "You don't like very many people, do you, Severus?"

_Very many?_ he thought. _Perhaps one...on a good day. _He hoped his stony silence would dissuade her from further questioning.

"Do you like _me_?" she persisted.

"Again, that is immaterial," Snape replied. Somewhat to his own surprise, he realized he did like her. To be more precise, he felt he could tolerate spending more than five minutes in her company at any given time, which was a vast improvement over the rest of his acquaintance.

"If you say so," Celeste said, but that wicked twinkle had returned to her eyes.

Refusing to be baited, he snapped, "Get ready to Apparate."

Immediately she wrapped her hands around his right arm, returning to the tourniquet-tight death grip she'd employed earlier. He fixed the image of her comfortable, shabby front parlor in his mind, and swirled them away from Diagon Alley.

"I don't see how anyone could get used to that," she remarked, almost the second they came to rest in the house.

"And I don't see how anyone could get used to standing in queues at the airport," he retorted.

"Touché." Celeste removed her hands from his arm with more alacrity than she had shown the first time they Apparated, and Snape experienced an odd sensation...was that regret? Somehow he found he almost enjoyed the sensation of her hanging on to him for dear life.

Moving to one of the side chairs, Celeste undid the clasp that held the cloak fastened at her throat and carefully draped the expanse of black velvet over the chair's back. From somewhere within its voluminous folds she produced the long, slender box that held her newly purchased wand.

"Are you really going to show me how to use this?" she asked doubtfully.

"Of course," Snape replied, relieved that she hadn't asked any more probing personal questions. Giving the slightly cluttered room a quick glance, he went on, "We need more open space than this -- "

"The reading room," Celeste suggested. "We can just move the table and chairs off into a corner."

He nodded. "That should do."

And he followed her into the reading room, where they each took a chair and placed it in a corner, followed by the table that held her crystal ball. Celeste's fool of a cat showed up during these proceedings and decided that the trailing ends of the piano scarf which topped the small, round table had been designated her new plaything, until Celeste rescued the crystal ball from certain death and shooed the cat out of the room.

"Don't want that happening again," she said, somewhat cryptically.

Then the space was clear, with only a large faded Persian rug occupying the center of the polished wooden floor. Snape judged the room large enough for his purposes; it measured about four meters in length and three across, and since they would be the only two occupying it, the place should do nicely.

Dumbledore had suggested that Celeste be taught defensive spells, but as she had never used a wand before, Snape judged it prudent to start with a very simply levitation charm, the same one that all new students learned in their first week. From there he would move on to the more complex spells.

He looked around, attempting to locate something he could have Celeste levitate. The shelves were full of books, but since first-years started out with feathers, Snape thought he should begin with something lighter. Then he spied a thin magazine sitting on top of one of the bookcases. Not perfect, but perhaps it would do.

With a flick of his wand and a nonvocal command, the magazine zipped through the air, pages fluttering, and landed on the ground in front of Celeste's feet. "We will start with that," he said.

Looking somewhat pained, Celeste lifted her own wand, which she had retrieved from its box. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Attempt to raise the magazine into the air -- about waist level should do," Snape added. At least there was less chance of her putting her eye out with the bloody thing if she aimed lower. "A light flicking motion should do. This is the charm: _Wingardium leviosa_. Accent on the third syllable of the second word, if you please."

Celeste set her shoulders and took a deep breath, while Snape attempted to ignore the distracting movement of her bosom as she did so. With the wand resting delicately between her thumb and forefinger, she waved the slender piece of beech above the magazine and breathed, "_Wingardium_ _levi-_o_-sa_!"

Instantly the magazine fluttered into the air and hovered about three feet off the ground. Snape's eyes widened slightly; normally first-years had a difficult time getting a feather a few inches into the air on the first go-round, let alone a few feet. And of course the magazine was much bulkier and difficult to control.

But naturally he couldn't let her see how surprised he was. Nor would he admit even to himself how worried he had been that she would turn out to be little more than a Squib, the explosive display in Ollivander's shop notwithstanding. Apparently all those years of having her magical abilities blocked had done little lasting harm. He wondered then what sort of Potions students she would have made and found himself inexplicably relieved that she had never attended Hogwarts. Somehow it was much easier to interact with her now without the burden of a history as student and teacher behind them.

"So what do I do with it now?" Celeste asked, looking a little alarmed as the magazine continued to hover in front of her.

"Simple enough." Snape raised his wand, and snapped, "_Finite incantatem_!"

Immediately the magazine fell to the floor with a rustle of paper. Celeste bent down and prodded it with the forefinger of her free hand, as if trying to ascertain whether it had any life left in it. "_Finite incantatem_," she repeated, her tone thoughtful. "So that stops whatever spell's currently in operation?"

"Precisely."

He wondered then if he'd had a look of surprise on his face, for Celeste said, her tone a gentle rebuke, "I did have some Latin in school, you know."

Of course. He realized that perhaps he had underestimated Celeste Jenkins simply because she had had no formal schooling in magic. Training her was going to be decidedly different from trying to teach a pack of mutton-headed first-years.

Without bothering to acknowledge her statement, Snape said, "That wasn't bad, for a first try. But let's see now if it was just a fluke."

And with that command he had her practice raising the magazine once more, then again and again. After that he had her move on to lifting progressively heavier books, and multiple objects simultaneously, until at the end she had three books, the crystal ball, and one of the chairs levitating all at once.

It was an impressive display, all the more so for the fact that she had never practiced any sort of magic save some untrained Legilimency and Divination prior to this. He could not count the book levitation he'd first seen her use in the store -- it was the sort of wild, unschooled magic that all wizard-born children practiced in one form or another before they began to whip their native abilities into something approaching discipline.

But even he could tell the strain was beginning to tell on her; Celeste's face looked pale, and he could see the tension in her throat muscles as she concentrated on keeping all five objects equidistant from one another and at the same height off the floor.

"Enough," Snape said finally, and Celeste let out a sigh and slowly maneuvered everything back into its proper place before she at last lowered her wand.

"Oof," she said, reaching up with her left hand to rub the muscles at the back of her neck. "You should have warned me that practicing magic was so exhausting."

"Perhaps, when one is forced to pack years of training into a considerably shorter amount of time." Never would he admit that he had pushed her far harder than any student, even that fool of a Potter boy. Perhaps he had continued to press away because he had hoped she would break off in his hand. Then he could have gone to Dumbledore and told the Headmaster that perhaps it would be safer to Obliviate her after all.

_Safer for whom?_ asked a spiteful little voice in his head, and Snape gave a mental shrug, forcing the unwelcome thought away.

Celeste sent a thoughtful glance in his direction. "I suppose I hadn't quite thought of it that way." Then her gaze shifted to a small clock of inlaid wood that sat on top of one of the bookshelves. "Look at the time -- it's half-past six already. No wonder I couldn't concentrate any more. I'm famished." Her expression turned mock-serious. "And don't you dare try to weasel out of my fixing you dinner, because you promised."

As he had, he thought wearily. Although part of him wanted to just quietly Disapparate back to his solitary quarters at Hogwarts, his stomach chose that moment to express its opinion on the subject. Loudly.

Celeste had the good sense not to laugh, though Snape thought he saw her mouth twitch a bit. "Well, that settles it," she commented. Moving to one of the bookshelves, she carefully placed her wand in the box she had placed there earlier, then stopped, giving Snape a worried look. "You're not vegan, are you?"

"Hardly." His had been a household that didn't believe man lived by bread alone, and he hadn't changed his eating habits much over the years.

She expelled a relieved breath. "Good. Because I have these lovely steaks for dinner, but then I worried -- " A lift of the shoulders. "Well, I would have made shift, but it's certainly easier this way." And with that she exited the reading room, Snape trailing along behind her since he couldn't think of what else to do.

As with most row houses, Celeste's home was long and narrow, with the kitchen located at the very rear. But it was a cheerful enough compartment, with a scrubbed butcher-block countertop, Spanish-tiled floor, and the most impressive cooker he had ever seen.

Perhaps noticing the way his gaze rested on the stainless-steel monstrosity, Celeste grinned. "Behold, my one indulgence. Besides books, that is."

"Seems rather much for one person," Snape remarked.

"Oh, it is," she said cheerily. "But I've always loved to cook, and I just take the extras down to the boys at Topham's if I don't feel like freezing it for later. Poor dears probably would be subsisting exclusively on chips and vindiloo if it weren't for me."

With that she stepped over to the refrigerator, removed a paper-wrapped bundle that proved to be a pair of lush-looking steaks, then bent and retrieved several creamy stoneware mixing bowls from a cupboard. It was as she reached up for one of the sprigs of rosemary that had been drying over the sink that she snapped, "Oh, blast these things!"

"Is there a problem?"

In answer she flicked an annoyed finger at one of her voluminous sleeves. "It's this damn dress. I can't cook in this thing. I can't imagine how one does much of anything in this sort of getup, except look decorative and possibly twirl about on stage." Looking grim, she set the rosemary down on the counter next to a chopping block and announced, "I've got to change. Be back in a sec." Then she hurried out.

Snape found himself hoping that she wouldn't put on a pair of jeans, which seemed to be her usual fallback attire. Then he frowned. What the devil difference did it make what she changed into as long as it helped her to turn out a passable meal? Besides, when had he ever cared a Knut for what anyone wore?

More quickly than he would have thought possible, Celeste dashed back into the kitchen -- not, thankfully, in denim, but a close-fitting dark top over a long, flowing skirt. She pushed her sleeves up and retrieved a knife from its butcher block, shot him a knowing smile, and said, "Don't worry -- I knew better than to put on some jeans."

"I hadn't noticed," he drawled, turning his attention to the wine rack that dominated the far wall of the kitchen.

Apparently deciding that she'd had enough Snape-baiting for the moment, Celeste returned to mincing the rosemary. She remarked, "Nothing elf-made, but there should be something worthy in there."

Indeed. He was certainly no connoisseur, but it appeared that Miss Jenkins had somewhat epicurean tastes to match her cooking skills. He saw wines from all over Europe, and a few from as far away as Australia and California.

"My dad was into wines," she said, placing a small saucepan on the cooktop and igniting the burner. "He always said he got tired of the stereotype that all we English do is sit around in pubs and drink beer. Not that we don't do a lot of that, as Boddy liked to point out."

"Boddy?" Snape had heard some ridiculous names over the years, but that was a new one.

Celeste grinned. "Danny Boddington -- you know, from the brewing company?"

Unfortunately, Snape did. His Muggle father had downed quite a few pints of the brew during the course of his career. He nodded, feeling a sour grimace twist his mouth.

Seeming not to notice his scowl, she went on, "He and I had rather a thing my last year of prep. He took the family business very seriously -- at least as far as sampling its wares went."

Now, why would such a comment cause a stab of dislike to flare up in him suddenly? Surely it made no difference who Celeste had spent time with years ago...or, for that matter, who she might be seeing now.

"He went off to school in the States," she commented, doing something complicated in a saucepan with the rosemary, some red wine, and what looked like beef stock. Snape had forgotten how much work went into preparing a meal the Muggle way -- for most of his life his food had been provided by the house elves at Hogwarts, and even lately in his semi-exile at Spinner's End he'd made use of certain domestic charms and spells to avoid any unnecessary effort.

Then Celeste looked up from her stirring and gave Snape a rueful smile. "Listen to me, babbling on about people you couldn't possible give a fig about. Now that we don't have to worry about being interrupted, perhaps you could tell me more about my dreams, and this You-Know-Who person."

For some reason, Snape felt disinclined to do so. Perhaps it was merely that conversation on such a dread topic seemed highly out of place in Celeste's warm, brightly lit kitchen, which already had begun to fill with wonderful smells. But he knew he could not avoid the topic indefinitely.

"His name is Voldemort," Snape began, waiting the obligatory half-second for the look of shock that inevitably followed whenever the Dark Lord's name was uttered out loud. But of course Celeste hadn't been raised in the wizarding world and hadn't been schooled in any such reaction. She merely nodded, then laid the two steaks out on the grill that was built into the cooktop between the gas burners.

"There's no need to go into his entire history," Snape continued, somehow feeling a bit put off his stride. "His entire being is consumed with cheating death, and he promises to give this power to his followers as well."

"Can he? Cheat death, I mean."

"He has been able to survive shocks that would have killed lesser men," he answered carefully. "For many years he was considered dead, but he has returned and is once more attacking those of the wizard world who are not on his side."

For a long moment Celeste remained silent. A casual observer might have assumed she was merely absorbed in attending to the food on the stove before her, but Snape thought he knew better. A small frown fretted her brows, and her mouth looked grim. "And how long has it been since he returned?" she asked quietly.

"Five years."

"Ah." Without further comment Celeste went to the fridge and removed a bowl of already sliced potatoes and onions; no doubt she had done some of her prep earlier in the day before he had even arrived. He had to wait for her to place a second, larger pan on the cooktop and stir the potatoes and onions into it before she replied. "That's when my dreams began."

"Yes."

"But why?" she burst out. "Did I know him before? Did my parents? What possible connection could there be between the two of us?"

He had never been the type to offer comfort, but somehow Snape felt moved by her obvious anguish. He said quietly, "I don't know. Your parents feared for you, that much is obvious. After what happened on your eleventh birthday -- " And he broke off, realizing that he had never told Celeste about viewing that particular memory.

"What happened on my eleventh birthday?" Her voice sounded calm, but he noticed that she gripped the stirring spoon so tightly her knuckles showed white. "Enlighten me, since I don't remember anything of it."

Crossing his arms, Snape gave her a cautious look. No use avoiding the subject; she had that same aspect of controlled fury she'd shown the night she followed him into Topham's. "It's how I knew you were wizard-born," he said, after a brief pause. "That one time you let me into your mind. I couldn't see any memories earlier than when you were twelve or so, and it troubled me. So I probed further, and saw what must have been your birthday party. You sat at a table, with all your relatives around you -- "

"All my relatives?" she broke in. "I don't have any relatives -- Mum and Dad were both only children."

At that moment he suddenly comprehended the true depth of what she had lost. Not only the chance to grow up in a world of magic, but her entire family save her parents had been taken away from her. Was the spurious safety of Muggle society really worth it?

"Your relatives," Snape repeated firmly. "I've since learned that your parents were both seventh children -- seventh son of a seventh son, seventh daughter -- "

"Seven?" She sounded incredulous. "You mean I have fourteen aunts and uncles out there I never knew about?"

"Perhaps, if they are all still living. I hadn't investigated that yet." A fruitless exercise, and perhaps a dangerous one anyway. At this point he saw no reason for Celeste's relatives to know of her whereabouts.

"Bloody hell," she breathed, then turned and flipped over the steaks with a sudden, vicious movement.

"At any rate," he continued, determined to keep some control over the conversation, "during the party something unusual occurred. It looked as if you were about to blow out the candles on your cake, when suddenly you cried out and clapped a hand to your forehead."

Celeste's dubious look told him so far he hadn't impressed her with that particular piece of information.

Undaunted, Snape said, "Your birthday is October thirty-first. On that same day, the day of your eleventh birthday, Voldemort attacked a couple in a place called Godric's Hollow. They had stood up to him, you see, but more importantly, their infant son had been prophesied as the one who would finally defeat the Dark Lord. He intended to kill the boy, but somehow the child survived -- survived with an odd scar on his forehead in the exact place where you apparently experienced blinding pain. The same place, I might add, that you felt pain the very first time we met, when you attempted to do a reading for me."

"But I don't remember anything about that -- " Celeste began, and then color leapt into her cheeks as she apparently put the clues together. "Did you -- did you _erase_ those memories?"

Snape didn't flinch. "Yes."

Not bothering to reply, Celeste used the flat of a spatula to press one of the steaks against the grill. Snape got the sudden impression that she would have liked to do the same thing with his face. When she finally did speak, her voice shook with anger. "So you just went in and mucked with my memories -- made me think that I'd cheerily seen you off and taken a nap -- "

"At the time it seemed the wisest course. I didn't know you weren't a Muggle, and you had seen things that were...dangerous for you."

Sarcasm fairly dripped from her tone. "Just trying to protect me?"

"Yes."

"I need to know that for sure." Celeste turned down the flame on the cooktop, then stepped closer to him. "Give me your hand."

Caught off guard, he said, "I don't think -- "

"I told you once that I trusted you. But how can you expect me to continue to trust you if you hide these things from me?"

He wished he could deny her. There was no help for it, however; he saw in her eyes that her belief in him had been shaken, and if he were to continue to train her he must let her in. Just a little, just enough for her to understand why he had done as he had.

So he extended his right hand, and Celeste took it in both of hers. Her fingers felt warm and soft but strong as they closed around his. Her eyes shut briefly, a sweep of dark lashes against her fair skin. He could feel her enter his mind, but somehow the contact didn't come across as overly intrusive -- just a feather-light touch, like a brush of moth wings against the skin. There was so much he still needed to keep hidden, but he allowed her to see his memory of that day -- how he had caught her as she fainted, how he had made sure she rested comfortably. And how he had taken the frightening memories from her mind in an attempt to keep her from harm.

She withdrew then, respecting the other barriers he had in place. Her eyes opened, and Snape found himself staring into them, noting the flecks of gold and brown near the pupil, the thin dark-green line that bordered the iris.

Then she smiled, and lifted her hands from his. Without speaking, she turned back to the stove and the neglected dinner.

"Well, then?" he demanded.

She turned ever so slightly, looking back over her shoulder toward him. A few strands of waving reddish-brown hair wisped around her forehead in the heat. The dimple showed briefly in her cheek as she spoke.

"I still trust you."


	9. Chapter 9

Sorry it's taken me a bit longer than usual to update -- I've been sewing away madly at hubby's Snape costume (I'll post pics in my LiveJournal after it's all done). But finally I was able to get this finished. Thank you to everyone for your lovely reviews!

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Nine

_From the diary of Celeste Jenkins:_

July 1, 1996

My hands are shaking as I write this. I'd like to say that it's simply because I'm still trying to process the idea that I have relatives out there, that I'm not as completely alone in the world as I thought I was. Or perhaps it's the fact that all those gaps in my memory weren't caused by some deficiency in my brain, but rather by a series of spells cast on me by my parents in a desperate attempt to hide me and my burgeoning powers from this Dark Wizard, this Lord Voldemort.

If only it were that simple.

The day went well enough. Diagon Alley is beyond fascinating, and I regret the fact that I only got to see one shop and one pub -- and even the Leaky Cauldron isn't strictly in Diagon Alley itself, but sort of straddling the two worlds, as it were, with its main façade fronting on Charing Cross Road. To think that everyone I saw there was a witch or a wizard, or some other sort of magical being. The bones of my right hand still feel faintly crushed by Hagrid's overwhelming grip; it amazes me to think that he's half giant. Of course, that makes me wonder which parent was the giant. Perhaps I should ask Severus the next time I see him.

Bugger...

Well, first things first. I am now the proud owner of a wand -- a really lovely thing carved from beech, with some pretty detail work about the handle that looks like stylized leaves winding around the grip. And the bloody thing actually does work; I still doubted that I had any sort of magical abilities, but just following Severus' instructions I was able to levitate all sorts of objects. This is the first spell taught at his school, apparently. He wants to start me out with the basics, but by necessity there will be large gaps in what he shows me, simply because there's no way I can possibly get caught up on everything taught during seven school years over this brief span of time we'll have together. During dinner Severus mentioned that the fall term always starts at Hogwarts on September first, so that's all the time we have.

I'm not quite sure how I feel about that. Quite beyond the fact that I'm now feeling extra pressure to absorb as much as I can as quickly as possible, part of me is also dismayed that our time together has such a definite end cap.

But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself.

I planned quite a lovely dinner, and although I didn't want to admit it to myself as I shopped for everything, the care with which I put the meal together indicated that I wanted to impress Severus. Although Fiona calls it a tedious bore, I've always enjoyed cooking. It's such an art form, really, and I find the preparation sort of relaxing in an odd way. The cleanup is another story, unfortunately.

We did have somewhat of a sticky moment when Severus let slip that he had erased some of my memories after our first meeting. That made me unbelievably angry -- how dare he muck around in my mind? -- but he did try to explain that he'd only done it out of concern for my safety. In the end, though, I needed to reassure myself of his intentions my own way, by seeing his thoughts and memories of the incident.

He was reluctant, but I think he could tell I meant business. So he let me take his hand and enter his thoughts.

I think I mentioned in one of my earlier entries how beautiful I thought his hands were. I tend to notice things like that -- hands can be so eloquent in their way, and his were as long-fingered and strong as a concert pianist's. He's so stiff and dour most of the time that for some reason I had assumed his fingers would be cold, but they felt warm and strong under mine.

And then I went into his mind.

Immediately I could tell he was hiding things from me, and I can't fault him for that; he's certainly not the sort of person who wants or needs to reveal all of himself. But I could see the scene through his eyes: The sudden look of terror on my face. The unthinking instinct that led him to move forward and catch me as I fainted. The sight of me lying in his arms, and then on the couch, where he placed me so carefully. And overriding everything the worry that the words of prophesy which had spilled from my lips might have put me in mortal danger. I understood then that my vision was somehow connected to Lord Voldemort, and Severus had only acted as he did in a desperate attempt to protect me.

I withdrew from his mind after that. He'd looked at me in concern, and I'd hastened to reassure him that he hadn't destroyed my trust in him. Although he'd remained expressionless as usual, I sensed a slight lessening of a tension I hadn't even known was there. So he did care a little about what I thought of him.

By that time dinner was almost ready, so I told him to choose a bottle of wine and then get himself out of the kitchen while I finished the last little bits. I don't mind having someone around while I'm doing the actual cooking, but things tend to get a little frenzied at the last minute, and it's just easier for me to work without having to worry about tripping over anyone.

I'd set the table in the dining room before Severus even arrived; again, it was just one of those things that makes the meal go so much more smoothly if it's done in advance. He waited for me there, the bottle of burgundy he'd chosen already opened and breathing. How he got it open, I don't know, since I hadn't brought out the corkscrew yet, but I suppose that sort of thing is child's play for an accomplished magician such as Severus.

After I set the food down and took my seat to Severus' right -- I'd seated him at the head of the table, guest of honor and all that -- we ate for a few minutes in silence. Not an awkward one, actually; we were both probably just hungry. At least I know I was, even though I'd taken the precaution of eating a larger lunch than I normally would, since I hadn't known at the time how long we would be out. Somehow I had the feeling that Severus was the sort of person who often forgot about eating if he had more important matters occupying his mind. Maybe performing magic doesn't sap his energy the way it does mine; by the time dinner was ready I felt as if could have eaten both steaks myself.

But after I had satisfied my raging appetite enough to indulge in conversation, I asked, "So how long have you taught at Hogwarts?"

"Sixteen years," he replied.

I had gotten the impression that he had been there for a while, but still the answer surprised me. Again I wondered how old he was. I knew better than to ask such an impertinent question, however. Instead, I inquired, "Do you enjoy it?"

A quick black glance was my only reply, followed by something that sounded suspiciously like a muffled snort.

Well, I should have known that Severus Snape wasn't exactly the sort of instructor who took much joy in his pupils -- I'd gathered as much from the little bit I'd seen of his mind that first time I'd done a reading with him. But I'm nothing if not persistent. Ignoring the baleful look he cast in my direction, I said, "Then why teach there, if you don't like what you do? I would think that there must be many wonderful things one could do in the magical world."

"Perhaps...for some," he said, his tone even blacker than his eyes. "Hogwarts suits my needs, Miss Jenkins."

So he was back to that, was he? I noticed that any time I tried to get too personal I received some sort of rebuff; in this case his use of the formal address surely meant I had strayed into forbidden territory.

I refused to let the conversation die there. Of course I respected his boundaries -- one couldn't do the sort of work I do without understanding that people need some privacy, even if they do end up revealing all sorts of personal details in the end. But it's up to them to decide how much. In Severus' case, I guessed that meant little or none at all. Surely, though, he wouldn't mind discussing magic in a more neutral way.

"So how does magic really work?" I asked. "Why do certain words seem to act as a focus? Obviously there's much more to a spell than a mere verbal component, or things would be flying across the room every time a magically gifted person opened his mouth."

For a second I thought I saw a glimmer of grudging respect in Severus' dark eyes. "That question has been debated since wizard-kind began," he replied. "It is true that wizard-born children begin to manifest their gifts fairly early on, for the most part. How early varies from child to child -- I began performing simple levitations as young as seven."

My brain made a desperate attempt to imagine Severus as a young boy and didn't get much farther than visualizing that horrid mop of black hair atop some sort of outlandish Little Lord Fauntleroy ensemble. To avoid bursting into laughter, I took a swallow of burgundy. "Is that common?" I inquired, once I was sure my voice sounded reasonably steady.

"Not particularly, but not unprecedented." He paused for a moment, a piece of my mother's good silver drooping gracefully from his left hand. "Often it depends on the level of magic ability of the person in question. I have no doubt that certain of my dunderheaded students did much of anything magical before attending Hogwarts."

"They can't all be that bad," I protested, feeling a little sorry for those unknown pupils of his.

The scowl he gave me left no question as to what he thought of my remark. But I wasn't one of his students -- well, not officially, anyway -- and I wasn't about to let him think he could intimidate me in such a fashion. Lifting a piece of steak to my mouth, I took a bite and chewed thoughtfully before I said anything. Then I set down my fork and commented, "Perhaps you're a little too hard on people."

"Indeed?" His eyes narrowed. "I would say that one learns from experience, Miss Jenkins. Perhaps you have simply led such a sheltered existence that you've had nothing to ruffle your halcyon view of the universe."

"Oh, yes," I retorted. "My sheltered, perfect life that involved my parents lying to me about who I really was, who they actually were! My sunny existence that led me to have to identify their bodies in the morgue after the car accident because there were no other known relatives to do it! Have _you_ ever had to do such a thing, Severus?"

Silence then, as he stared at me for a moment. Then I saw perhaps the slightest bit of softening in the hard lines of his mouth. But I also noticed the bleak look in his eyes. Perhaps he had never gone through exactly what I had, but somewhere in his past lay buried a great deal of pain. Obscurely, that realization made me wish I could find some way to reach out to him, to let him know that he wasn't the only one who had suffered.

I wasn't brave enough for that yet. I guessed that any overture which smacked of the slightest sympathy would most likely meet with a chilly reception.

"No," he said at length. "I have never had to do _that_."

And the way he said the phrase made me wonder what sort of horrible things he _had_ been forced to do over the years. Something a good deal worse than dealing with slow-witted students or grading piles of sub-par essays, I imagined.

Feeling somewhat deflated, I just murmured, "Well, then," and dug back into my meal.

We ate in silence for a bit, both of us preoccupied and edgy. I had hoped this meal would go better, but I should have known that things would never run smoothly around as prickly a personality as Severus Snape. Really, what had I been thinking, anyway? That I would impress him with my domestic-goddess routine? So far he'd not even given any indication that he was even enjoying the food I'd prepared -- he ate almost mechanically, like a man who knows that he needs to ingest some sustenance to keep going but who pays very little attention to what's actually going into his mouth.

"It's very good," Severus said abruptly. "I suppose I should have told you that earlier."

Startled, I gave him a wary glance. Had he said that merely because some instinct had told him that it was good manners to do so, or had he somehow picked up the stray thoughts from my mind?

His eyes met mine for a second, and I saw him smile for the first time. Oh, it wasn't much of a smile, just a little lift at the corners of his mouth, but at least it proved two things. First, that he actually was capable of smiling, and second, that he did possess teeth. I'd been beginning to wonder.

"I'm not practicing Legilimency now," he said, his tone dry. "No need for that, when someone has as easy a face to read as you do."

"Well, I suppose I'll have to work on that," I replied.

But that was enough. From then on the tone of the evening lightened considerably. We talked a little about Hogwarts, and then I inquired as to his plans for my next lesson. He explained a bit about defense charms, which would be the next order of business. After he had assured himself that I could manage at least rudimentary self-defense, then we would move on to the actual practice of Occlumency.

And as he spoke I listened intently, attentive not just to what he was saying but how he was saying it. Despite his cool, businesslike manner of speaking, I could tell he really did care about the practice of magic, in all its intricacies. Perhaps his impatience with his students lay not so much in the fact that he believed them all to be dunderheads but more that he felt they weren't living up to their potential. That annoyance I could understand. So many times I've felt during the various readings I've performed that people had the ability to do so much more. But they allow themselves to be trapped by self-imposed limitations and never accomplish even half what they're capable of.

The other thing I've learned is that the individual who is hard on others is often doubly hard on himself...

I watched Severus speak, listened to that gorgeous black-honey voice, feeling myself fall under its spell. No magic there, though, except perhaps the normal kind that happens sometimes between a man and a woman. What a nice mouth he had, after all -- his lips were thin, but beautifully sculpted, and though his lower teeth were a bit crooked I found their asymmetry charming somehow. And with a slight shiver I recalled his memory of catching me when I fainted, the way he had been unable to ignore the brush of my hair against his hands, the weight of my body in his arms...no, he was not quite as indifferent as he chose to appear, this Severus Snape.

Then he broke off in the middle of a comment about the Expelliarmus charm, giving a small wince as if something had pained him. His right hand touched the tight black wool sleeve that covered his left forearm.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"Yes," he said immediately, although somehow I got the impression that he wasn't telling me the truth. "It's time I went, though."

"Now?" For although we had eaten most of our meal, still half the bottle of burgundy remained, and I had made a sticky toffee pudding for dessert.

"Yes," Severus said again, then stood and placed his napkin on the table next to his plate.

"Well, erm, all right," I said, feeling a little idiotic but unable to come up with a good enough excuse to keep him from running off. I got the feeling that an offering of sticky toffee pudding wasn't going to do it.

"Thank you for dinner," he went on, formal as ever, even as he moved out of the dining room and out into the hallway. I wasn't sure why -- perhaps he thought that Disapparating directly out of the room where we had eaten would be rude.

"But when will I see you again?" I asked, wishing I didn't sound so desperate. "I mean, we still have to do that Expelliarmus thingy -- "

"Later this week, I'm sure," he replied. "I'll send you -- "

"Don't send me an owl again," I cut in. "One was bad enough. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to explain a bloody owl on your doorstep?"

He almost smiled. Almost. "I will contrive some other way to send you a note."

"Yes, we have something for that. It's called the mail."

Of course he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he replied, "I'll consider it."

And then for a moment we just looked at one another. Part of my brain whispered, _Just kiss him goodbye and see what happens!_ Luckily the rational side won out, and I only remained rooted in place as he stepped away from me and whirled into nothingness. At least, that's what it looked like on my end. One second he was turning, a flash of black robes, and then he was gone. I was left standing there, as I stared at the spot on the Persian runner where he had stood only seconds before and wondered exactly what had just happened.

After a few moments I wandered back into the dining room and began to mechanically stack the plates on top of one another. HBC strolled in, sniffing the air.

"Like I'm going to give you any leftover steak, you wretched brat," I said.

Of course she knew me better than that. I took everything into the kitchen, cut the little bits of leftover meat into even smaller bite-sized morsels, and then scooped them into HBC's bowl. At least the kitchen did have a dishwasher -- my father had it put in during my first year of secondary school -- so the cleanup wasn't as bad as it could have been. Still, the mindless tasks did nothing to keep my brain from churning through the evening and trying to figure out when things had changed.

When I was done in the kitchen I went out to the front parlor and switched on the stereo, but a few seconds of listening convinced me that Nirvana was doing nothing to improve my mental state. Instead, I stopped the CD player and pulled out the disc, then put in one of Glenn Gould playing Bach's _Goldberg Variations_. My father always loved that CD.

Then I pulled out this diary and began writing away. The diary's always been my defense against my "blank spots" -- that's what I used to call them when I was younger, and although now I know that they weren't caused by anything wrong with my own mind, still the habit's been set. I suppose it's a good idea, anyway; one tends to forget all the details after a while, and if you write a thing down while it's still fresh in your mind, you'll have it with you forever.

If only I knew what I should write.

Is it even possible that I could be falling for a dour, lank-haired wizard named Severus Snape? What the hell am I thinking? I've never been one of those "love at first sight" sorts of girls -- a man has to earn my respect before I'll even consider having those kinds of feelings for him. I suppose that's what upset me the most about Alex. I was careful, I made him work for it -- and then I finally let him in when I thought I knew him, and he broke my heart anyway. So this thing with Severus has come on slowly, I know. After all, even if I can admit here that I'm attracted to him, he isn't exactly the sort to inspire wild, instant passion.

But I find that I miss him now that he's gone. I want to know what is so painful about his past, and why he's so closed off. Oh, that sounds like rubbish when I write it down. I see women do silly things because of men every day, and I've always prided myself on not being the type to run after emotionally unavailable men just because I need a challenge or think I can change who they are.

I don't want to change Severus. It's because he is who he is that I find myself attracted to him. He's brilliant, after all. I can't abide dull men. And that voice -- those fascinating creases over his eyes -- the shape of his mouth...

Oh, bugger. I really am in trouble, aren't I?

And what scares me the most is the fact that although I know deep down he feels some sort of attraction to me, I'm worried that he'll never allow himself to act on it. I know I don't dare say or do anything until I'm fairly certain I won't be rebuffed in the very worst way. I couldn't bear that.

Scratch that. The idea of rejection frightens me, but of more immediate concern is the fact that very soon he'll be training me in Occlumency. Just the thought that he'll be trying to get into my mind and may be able to detect these feelings is enough to turn my stomach into knots.

On the other hand, I now have a very good incentive to become the best Occlumency student Severus Snape has ever seen...


	10. Chapter 10

I'm so sorry it took me so long to update this -- I was frantically sewing to get ready for Worldcon, and afterward work was a nightmare, and then I got sick. ("And then the dog peed on my homework...") ;-) Anyway, thank you for your patience -- I really do hope to update this at least every other week from here on out.

* * *

Ten

Voldemort held court in an abandoned country house very similar to the one his late, unlamented father had once occupied in Little Hangleton. The current residence was ringed about with Muggle-repelling spells similar to those which protected Hogwarts; Snape knew that on occasion the Dark Lord amused himself by lifting those same spells and allowing his followers to "play" with the Muggles who ventured too close to his abode. So far Snape had been fortunate enough not to be present during these little interludes, but he had steeled himself against the day when his luck ran out and he was forced to participate in the inevitable torture and death.

The spells were in place this dank July evening, a night that felt more like early November than several weeks past the summer solstice. Snape Apparated into a stand of scrawny fir trees that flanked the north-facing wall of the house, trying to ignore the increasing pain from the scar in his forearm. The searing sensation would grow, he knew, until he appeared in the Dark Lord's presence.

A flash of something pale against the darkness caught Snape's eye; he paused in the shelter of the little coppice, straining his wizard-trained sight through the murk. A dim half-moon wavered in and out of existence through the clouds, but it did little to illuminate the scene. Then he recognized the fall of silver-gilt hair, the features delicate and regular even at this distance. Narcissa Malfoy.

It seemed that she had just exited the large double-doored entrance to the house. She paused on the crumbling stone of the top step, then raised one hand to her mouth as if trying to suppress a sob. Perhaps it was merely Snape's imagination, but he thought he saw a glimmer on her pale cheeks, as if from tears recently shed. She reached up and pulled the hood of her long black cloak over her head, obscuring her white-blonde hair, then moved off to the right, away from the half-hearted grove in which he stood. With a swirl of black against black, she Disapparated.

Wondering what on earth that was all about -- and grimly aware he would probably learn the answer soon enough -- Snape moved out of the cover of the trees and strode toward the front door of Voldemort's residence. At the same time he methodically put all memories of the day and evening he had spent out of his mind. No stray thought of Celeste Jenkins could be allowed to escape the mental compartment he had built to contain her. He had to forget the fact that he could still taste traces of burgundy and red meat from the dinner she had prepared for him, that he could see her delicate features somehow outlined against the darkness, that he could practically hear the northern lilt of her voice if he just concentrated hard enough --

_No!_ With an almost physical effort he shoved all those memories and sensations away, pushing them back into the darkness and locking them up, much as he would secure a desk drawer. In fact, the mental image that often came to Snape when he worked to hide all the thoughts and memories which meant certain death if Voldemort were ever to discover them was of a large apothecary's chest he kept in his office. The chest possessed several tens of drawers, each with its particular spelled lock and key, each containing treasures vital to potion-making. But once they were hidden away they were safe, and only Snape knew the spell to release the contents of each drawer.

Mind cleared of everything except thoughts of wishing to assist Voldemort, Snape stepped inside the house. The doors were magically warded, of course, but Snape, as one of the Dark Lord's trusted inner circle, passed through easily. Once inside he made his way through the shabby foyer with its cracked black and white marble floor and on into the large salon where Voldemort sat in an imposing chair of black walnut, Nagini coiled at his feet. A sullen fire in the carved marble fireplace provided the only light.

Unlike other occasions where the Dark Lord had surrounded himself with his sycophants, Snape found himself alone with Voldemort. He wasn't sure what to make of that. Not that the two of them hadn't shared private conversations in the past, but ever since a large group of Death Eaters had broken out of Azkaban this past January the Dark Lord had seemed to make a point of having as many of them around him as possible.

Fear began a slow icy trickle up his spine, and Snape clamped down on it with a sudden vicious mental movement. There could be no worry, no doubt, nothing save Voldemort and the desire to do the Dark Lord's bidding.

Voldemort spoke. "You saw our dear Narcissa, did you not?"

Lying served no purpose. "Briefly, my lord. She Disapparated before I could speak with her."

"Ah." The Dark Lord's long skeletal fingers brushed a small cordial glass on the carved mahogany table that sat next to his chair. Garnet-colored liquid shimmered within the cut crystal. It could have been port...or not. "I fear she is a trifle upset at the moment."

_No doubt_, thought Snape, _with her husband locked away in Azkaban and her place in the wizarding world severely shaken_. Voice neutral, he said, "My lord?"

The slit-pupilled eyes met his. "Redemption, Snape. Lucius Malfoy bungled matters badly. It is now his son's duty to put things right."

Snape nodded, but remained silent. Voldemort loved the sound of his own voice; he would tell Snape of his plan soon enough.

"It is time for young Draco to show his true worth," the Dark Lord went on. "Time as well for us to make our next move against Dumbledore. Draco Malfoy's position as a student at Hogwarts offers the perfect opportunity to destroy the Headmaster once and for all."

Logical, of course -- Dumbledore was the only wizard in the world who could possibly stand up to Voldemort and have any hope of surviving the encounter. Snape could allow himself no other thoughts on the subject, not with a Legilimens such as the Dark Lord watching him carefully for his reaction. Still, a little cautionary comment would not be out of line; indeed, Voldemort probably expected it. "It will not be easy, my lord," Snape said. "Hogwarts is protected again incursions of dark magic, and of course those loyal to you would not be able to Apparate directly onto the grounds."

"Precisely," Voldemort replied, steepling his pale fingers under an equally bloodless chin. "Young Malfoy will have to come up with something more...inventive."

Privately Snape wondered how inventive Draco could be. The boy was a Slytherin, and Snape had always protected him to the best of his ability, but even Snape had to admit to himself that Draco Malfoy wasn't exactly the sharpest thorn on the bush. "And if he is...unable?"

"Then the name of Malfoy will be wiped from the face of the earth."

That was certainly an incentive to start a few more brain cells firing. Nothing like the threat of having your entire family murdered to force some creative thinking. For a fraction of a second Snape felt a flicker of pity for the boy. Even if the Dark Lord picked up the emotion, it wouldn't seem that out of character. After all, Snape was the head of Draco's House and had spent the past five years shepherding young Malfoy and showing him favor whenever possible.

Snape spoke after the smallest of pauses. "And your wishes for me in this matter, my lord?"

"What you do best, Severus. Watch, and report." Voldemort's already fleshless lips pressed themselves into almost nonexistence. "This is a task I want Draco Malfoy to carry out on his own. But I also want to be assured that he is...applying himself...with the necessary conviction. Although he swore that he would carry out my commands without question, I detected a distinct lack of enthusiasm on the part of his mother. I would not wish her over-protective nature to be her son's undoing."

Snape thought of the moonlit glint of tears he had spied on Narcissa Malfoy's cheeks. No wonder her entire being had seemed to radiate worry and despair. With Lucius in Azkaban and her life crumbling around her, what did she have left but her only son?

"I will assist in any way I can, my lord," Snape said.

"No," hissed Voldemort, "you will not. You will only observe. Draco must do this on his own, or he is of no use to me. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, my lord." The threat was only implied, but powerful nonetheless: Anything less than absolute obedience would result in certain death...or worse. And since Voldemort measured a person's worth by his or her usefulness to him, Snape had long ago learned to make himself as useful as possible.

The Dark Lord made a sudden restless movement with his left hand, and Nagini hissed softly, a sound echoed by a crackle in the fireplace as a log split apart and sent up a shower of sparks. "It is time we made our move," he said softly. "Time for Dumbledore to learn how fragile his mortal flesh really is." The firelight made Voldemort's eyes look more blood-tinted than ever as he cast a sidelong glance at Snape. "You are certain he suspects nothing?"

"Dumbledore is a trusting fool," Snape said, making sure to inject the correct amount of cold disdain into his tone. "While I cannot make light of his abilities, his judgment slips every year. I assure you, my lord, he will never see this coming. His weakness in believing the best of others will be his undoing."

"As I thought." A thin smile twisted Voldemort's lips.

"Besides -- " Snape hesitated, but knew that he would have tell the Dark Lord of his elevation to Dark Arts professor at some point. Best to do it now, and present the information as if he were bestowing a gift. "Dumbledore has decided to give me the position of Dark Arts teacher for the coming year. This of course introduces even greater opportunities -- "

"Splendid," Voldemort broke in. "You will obviously not teach them anything overly useful -- "

" -- just enough to make them believe they can protect themselves," finished Snape.

Again that narrow, evil smile twisted the Dark Lord's mouth. "We understand one another, I think."

Snape bowed. While it had been impossible for him to completely hide his feelings of loyalty and muted affection toward Hogwarts from Voldemort, Snape had allowed the Dark Lord to believe he wanted to avenge the treatment he'd suffered there as a schoolboy by casting down Dumbledore and raising himself up in his stead. The control of Hogwarts -- a Hogwarts scoured of mudbloods and those loyal to the former Headmaster -- was a prize the Dark Lord had long dangled in front of the Potions master. It had been easy enough to get Voldemort believe that was what Snape really wanted.

If only the truth were that simple.

"One other thing," Voldemort went on, sounding casual...unless one knew him well. "I have heard...rumors...of some Muggle who may be a true Seer. So far no one has been able to discover her identity amongst the scores of false mediums and fortune-tellers which seem to infest the Muggle world. In your time at Spinner's End, have you heard of anyone such as this?"

Every cell in Snape's body seemed to contract, to center around the blankness of thought that would ensure Celeste's survival. After a tiny pause, he replied, "No, my lord, I have not. But you know how little attention I pay to Muggle affairs."

"Pity." The Dark Lord watched Snape carefully for a moment, and then seemed almost to shrug -- if he were even capable of such a human gesture at this point in his existence. He murmured, "And yet sometimes I almost feel -- " The words trailed off, and he picked up the cordial glass from the table with a too-casual motion. The liquid within left a blood-colored stain on his lips after he had drunk.

Snape could think of nothing, feel nothing. He could only wait and watch, an empty vessel for the Dark Lord's commands. Time for doubt and worry and fear later, when he was free of this place.

"Enough," Voldemort said abruptly, although Snape couldn't be certain whether the word had been addressed to him or whether the Dark Lord had been speaking to himself. "No doubt the fool Dumbledore is wondering where his erstwhile Potions master has gone to. For now, watch young Malfoy, and await my further commands."

"As you wish, my lord," Snape answered. Empty words, but ones Voldemort would wish to hear.

The Dark Lord made a dismissive gesture with one hand, and Snape bowed, then backed away toward the entrance of the salon. It was only after he had escaped into the night and felt the blessed coolness of the fresh air against his face once more that he allowed himself to take a ragged breath. Although Voldemort's plans for Dumbledore troubled him, far more immediately disturbing was the fact that the Dark Lord had somehow heard hints of Celeste's existence. Nothing concrete yet, thankfully, but that meant little. Snape knew how persistent Voldemort could be when in pursuit of anything he desired.

His first instinct was to Disapparate immediately back to Manchester and warn the girl, but Voldemort expected him to return to Hogwarts, and Snape didn't dare do anything that might alert the Dark Lord to the fact that he knew far more about this supposed "Seer" than he was letting on. So back to Hogwarts Snape went...and all the while he wondered how soon he could go to Celeste and tell her that her situation was far more precarious than he had feared...

* * *

As it turned out, Dumbledore was absent from the school when Snape arrived, and since the elderly wizard had left no note nor confided in anyone as to his whereabouts, Snape was forced to determine his next course of action without consulting the Headmaster. By then it was past midnight, and finally Snape decided to try and get some rest in his familiar and comfortable rooms. Voldemort obviously hadn't even tracked down the city where Celeste lived, so she should be safe enough for one more evening. 

She'd told Snape in no uncertain terms that she wouldn't appreciate another owl on her doorstep, but he didn't dare trust to the slow and uncertain vehicle of the British post. In the end, he decided to Apparate back to her home late the next morning, only this time into the small garden that backed up to the kitchen. Although his only glimpse of it had been through the window as she had prepared dinner for him the evening before, he thought he could make it there safely enough. It was too risky for him to go directly into the front parlor he had used before; he had no idea what her business hours were, and the last thing he needed was to Apparate in front of one of her clients.

The persistent fog had let up somewhat, and a thin, pale sun shone down on Snape as he emerged in the yard. By daylight it looked a little forlorn -- one side held a neatly weeded herb garden, but the weeks of uncertain sunshine had not done much for the plants there, which looked leggy and undernourished. Up against the fence to his left stood two rubbish bins, and directly in front of him was a narrow flagged walkway, leading to three stone steps topped by a door painted the same green as the front entrance to the house.

Snape paused on the top step, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure his arrival hadn't been observed by some busybody housewife or other neighbor. But the houses to either side looked quiet and dark; probably their occupants were off at work for the day, and the alley which backed up to the yard was similarly deserted. Satisfied that no one was around to note his presence, he knocked quickly on the back door.

For a long time no one answered. Snape began to wonder whether Celeste had gone out. After all, she didn't work a regular job the way most Muggles did, and perhaps she had taken advantage of the quieter morning hours to run her errands.

But then the door opened, and Celeste looked out at him, clutching a garish kimono about herself. She was barefoot, and her hair was covered by a turban-like wrapping of fuzzy green towel. Quite plainly she had just emerged from the bath.

"Oh," she said, her tone flat. "Mail not working, then?"

Clearly she was less than thrilled with him, but Snape couldn't be bothered with such niceties at the moment. "I need to come in."

Celeste expelled what sounded like an exasperated breath, but at least she opened the door wide enough to allow him entry. He stepped inside, then noted briefly that the kitchen looked spotless, with no sign of the elaborate meal she had prepared for him the night before.

"Couldn't bear to stay away?" she asked tartly.

"I told you I'd be back," Snape retorted. Although sarcasm was one of his chief weapons, he found he didn't care for it nearly so much when it was directed at himself.

"Yes, and I believe I said something about a note," she began, then shook her head. "Oh, never mind. The coffee's still hot. If you want some, grab a mug. I'm not going to stand here arguing with you with my head in a towel." And with that she pointed at a cupboard, then turned and left -- presumably to put on something a little more appropriate.

Snape opened the cupboard and found a set of brown earthenware mugs. The coffee did smell excellent, and he helped himself to a cup while awaiting her return. Celeste's coffee was as delicious as the meal she'd made the night before, dark and rich, and Snape found himself thinking that he was glad to find he wasn't the only one who preferred a stronger beverage in the morning than tea.

He waited, looking around at the kitchen, at the braided rug on the tile floor, the tiny pots of herbs that sat on the windowsill over the sink, the quietly humming stainless refrigerator that matched the oversized cooker. It was all so ordinary, so far removed from Voldemort and his machinations. Standing here, it was hard to imagine that any harm could possibly come to the young woman who called this place home.

But it was that sort of complacency which led to unnecessary deaths. How many times had Voldemort capitalized on that "oh, it couldn't happen to _me_" mentality? He and his followers struck in the darkness, and not just against the Aurors whose work it was to seek out Death Eaters and their ilk. No, ordinary wizarding folk and Muggle alike most often were the victims -- those who couldn't fight back, those who had nothing to recommend them save the fact that they were easy targets...

The coffee suddenly tasted bitter as wormwood. Snape set the mug down on the butcher-block countertop and grimaced. The ticking of the clock on the far wall sounded abnormally loud in the stillness, and he noted the time, then scowled. What the devil was taking her so long, anyway?

"Omelet?" Celeste asked suddenly, materializing in the doorway.

"What?"

"I was just about to make myself an omelet when you arrived. Do you want one?"

Her voice sounded suspiciously neutral, which probably meant she was still irritated with him. Not so irritated as to have put on a pair of jeans, though -- she'd dug up another flowing skirt, this one in a paisley pattern of muted rust and brown and olive, with an olive-colored top to match. Her damp hair had been pulled back into a hasty braid, she wore no makeup, and at the moment she looked about the same age as one of his seventh-year students.

Snape opened his mouth to say no, then realized he'd only had a bit of buttered toast some five hours earlier. "Very well," he said, his tone grudging.

Without comment Celeste went to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs, a bottle of milk, and a block of yellow cheese. She busied herself with these ingredients for some time before giving him a sideways look from under her lashes. "That Expelliarmus thing must be pretty important, then," she remarked, still sounding a little too cool.

For a second he looked at her blankly, then realized of course she was referring to the charm he'd proposed as her first real defensive spell. "Well, yes," he said, after a brief pause.

The only reply he got was a brief lift of the eyebrows as Celeste went to the stove and poured the egg mixture into a cast-iron skillet she'd set there earlier. In silence she tended to the omelet, while Snape watched her with increasing puzzlement.

Something about her seemed different this morning. Snape couldn't quite put his finger on what exactly. As he'd never been one to study the actions or emotions of others in any great detail -- save when practicing Legilimency -- for the moment he found himself at a loss. Somehow she seemed almost dimmer, as if some spark or brightness that normally infused her personality had disappeared. It wasn't just annoyance with him turning up unexpectedly on her doorstep when she'd been so clearly unprepared to have visitors. No, it was more than that. In his earlier encounters with her he'd seen a bold liveliness as alien to him as the world in which she lived. While at the time he might have found fault with such behavior, now that she faced him with the sort of coolness he had often received from others he felt unexpectedly disheartened. He had hoped she would be different.

"Something is worrying you," Celeste said at last, and finally her tone softened a bit.

"Something is always worrying me," he replied shortly. He had come here prepared to briskly inform her of the fact that Voldemort had somehow learned of her identity and then to discuss possible solutions to this problem, but something in him faltered as he watched Celeste expertly slide the omelets onto a pair of plates. How could he possibly disrupt her world in such a fashion?

"That's a terrible way to live, don't you think?" she asked. For a second her eyes met his, and he caught a flicker of some unreadable emotion there before she looked down and forced a smile. "Fork?"

Snape took the proffered utensil without replying. Perhaps, to someone with as sunny a nature as hers, it would be a terrible way to live. For him, constant worrying and planning contingencies had been the only thing that kept him alive.

With a slight shake of her head, Celeste pointed toward the dining room. "Well, let's at least sit down and eat this like civilized people. My mum always got on me about standing up and eating in the kitchen -- she said it was low class."

He shrugged and followed her into the other room, where the cloth from the previous evening's meal still covered the table. At some point Celeste must have secured the draperies with tiebacks, as Snape was now afforded a not very interesting view of the next-door neighbor's brick wall.

They ate in brittle silence. He had never been very good at initiating conversations, and Celeste did not seem inclined to hold up her end of things. Briefly he considered probing her thoughts, but that, he decided with some reluctance, would not have been very good manners. If she wanted to be angry with him, so be it. Certainly he had suffered far worse over the years.

"Owls all busy?" Celeste asked at last, as if she couldn't bear the quiet any longer.

Snape studied her for a moment over a forkful of egg. "You told me not to send one."

Instead of smiling as she might have once, she nodded thoughtfully. "I did, didn't I?" Then she set her fork down on her plate and said, "Don't mind me, Severus. I must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

"I hadn't noticed."

At that comment she did laugh, and a little of the sparkle seemed to return to her eyes. "That's a lie if I ever heard one. But thank you."

For some reason Snape felt inexplicably relieved. At least her ill humor hadn't been entirely his fault. He wasn't sure what to say, and settled for a muttered, "You're welcome."

Celeste dimpled slightly at that, and finished the rest of her omelet with a much better appetite than she had exhibited earlier. He followed suit -- the food was excellent, and although he would never have admitted it to her, he needed the nourishment. His sleep of the night before had been fitful at best, and the omelet now gave him the energy his body had craved.

"Is the reading room still cleared?" he asked, once he had eaten the last bite of egg and cheese.

"Yes," Celeste replied. "I hadn't got 'round to putting things back -- my first client isn't until three today, so I figured I had time."

"Good. Then we'll go ahead with the Expelliarmus spell."

Snape pushed his chair away from the table and rose, and Celeste followed him into the reading room. As she had indicated, the table and chairs were still tucked away in a corner, leaving the expanse of Persian rug free for practicing the spell. Good thing the rug was there -- the Expelliarmus spell could sometimes have fairly violent results, and the padding would help.

"Expelliarmus is a simple disarming spell," he said, drawing his wand out from its hiding place in his robes. At the same time Celeste moved quickly to one of the bookshelves, where the box which held her wand sat. She drew out the slender piece of beech and then stepped back to where Snape stood. He made sure he had her full attention, then continued, "Normally, of course, you would be using it against another wizard, where your aim would be to remove your opponent's wand from his grasp. However, the spell may also be used against someone who wields a more conventional weapon."

Brow furrowed slightly, Celeste nodded. "Does it -- does it hurt?" she asked.

"Not intentionally," he replied. "However, if the will behind it is strong enough, the recipient of the Expelliarmus spell may be forced off his feet. In rare instances, if more than one spell hits the victim at the same time, the person may be rendered unconscious." A thin smile twisted his lips as Snape remembered how he had knocked Gilderoy Lockhart back on his lily-white ass. The sensation, as he recalled, had been particularly rewarding. He raised his wand, and faced Celeste directly. "You try it."

She looked worried. "Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you -- "

"I doubt very much that will be the case. After all, I will properly defending myself -- "

With a motion so fast he hardly could see it, Celeste raised her wand and cried out, "_Expelliarmus_!"

Snape felt himself lifted off his feet and thrown backward through the air, even as his wand was snatched out of his right hand and knocked to the ground. The far wall of the reading room collided with his spine in a sickening thud, and he slid down to the floor, where he came to a rest on the carpet, ears ringing and the blood rushing to his face.

From somewhere off in the distance he could hear Celeste's startled exclamation of "oh, my God!", followed by the swift patter of her feet across the rug. Before he could register exactly what was happening, she had knelt down on the floor next to him and taken his right hand in hers.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "I'm so sorry -- "

He should have told her it was nothing, that she had done very well by catching him so off-guard. Once again her strength had surprised him. He should have gotten to his feet and continued the lesson immediately.

Instead, Snape felt content to remain where he was. A sweet herbal smell drifted toward him from Celeste's still-damp hair, and her braid fell forward over her shoulder and brushed against his hand. Despite the pain in his back and the realization that he would probably have some very nasty bruises tomorrow, at the moment he wanted nothing more than to stay where he was, letting her bend over him and wrap her warm fingers around his cold ones.

Her eyes met his; the worry in those green depths both surprised and comforted him. And there was something else, a warmth he hadn't expected -- no, he must be imagining things.

But then she glanced away, the color rising in her cheeks as she quickly let go of his hand.

"I'm fine," Snape said coldly, after an awkward pause. No woman had ever looked at him like that before, he was certain, but probably he was just confusing concern with regard. Just because Celeste had a naturally warm and welcoming disposition didn't mean -- _couldn't_ mean --

"I really didn't mean to -- " she broke in, and he raised a hand.

"You most certainly _did_ mean to; that is the only way the spell could have worked so effectively. Don't waste your breath on apologies."

With that her brows drew down, and she pushed herself back to her feet, then extended a hand to assist him to an upright position. Briefly Snape considered ignoring her offer of help but decided that would be rude even by his standards. So he let her pull him up as he tried not to wince at the various aches and pains the movement caused.

"_Accio_ wand!" he snapped, and his wand sailed into his outstretched palm.

"I am sorry," Celeste said in a small voice. "I really didn't think -- that is -- "

He cut her off. "Enough. Do you intend to apologize to Lord Voldemort when he comes to attack you?"

The second the words left his lips he regretted them. Her face went pale, and Snape could see the muscles in her slender neck work as she swallowed.

"Is that it?" Celeste whispered. "Has he found out about me? Is that why you're really here?"

How convenient it would be to lie, to hand her some soothing platitudes about her being safe enough here in Manchester. But whatever else he might be, Severus Snape was not the type to avoid the truth, however unpleasant. "Yes," he said slowly, then added, "That is, he has heard something of your existence. But he doesn't yet know where you live, or even your name. We have some time, I think."

For a long moment Celeste merely stared at him in frozen horror. Whatever had passed between them a few moments earlier seemed to have been completely stricken from her mind. Her knuckles showed white as she clenched her wand. Finally she said, her voice grimmer than he had ever heard it before, "Then we'd better keep practicing..."


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks for the reviews, everyone -- see, I am getting a little more back on track!

* * *

Eleven

A pounding on his door awakened Snape. He blinked against the darkness for a moment, then said, "_Lumos_!" The tip of his wand glowed with blue light, and he snatched it up from its resting place on the bedside table.

Minerva McGonagall's voice came through the door, sounding uncommonly agitated. "Professor Snape! Are you in there?"

"A moment, if you will!" he snapped. He knew McGonagall would not be intruding on his rest without good reason, and so he did not waste time in trying to dress. Instead, he pulled on the shabby dark gray dressing gown that lay across the foot of his bed and then hurried to the door.

The Transfigurations professor showed the same signs of a hurried toilette; a thin gray braid lay across her shoulder, and she wore a truly hideous woolly plaid robe. Her blue eyes, usually sharp and no-nonsense, were now filled with worry. "It's the Headmaster. He's returned, but he's in a bad way -- he needs you -- "

"Where?" cut in Snape.

"Back in his chambers. His hand -- his arm -- "

Snape didn't wait to hear the rest of it; he would find out for himself soon enough. Pushing past McGonagall, he sprinted down the hallway in the direction of the Headmaster's office. He heard her muttering to herself as she hurried after him, but as his legs were much longer than hers, he outpaced her easily.

When he reached the gargoyle Snape snarled, "Treacle tart," and the statue immediately moved out of the way. At least Dumbledore hadn't changed the password during the past few days.

His headlong rush slowed, however, as Snape caught sight of the Headmaster, who appeared to have collapsed on the overstuffed armchair normally reserved for visitors. Dumbledore's face was pale and shone with a thin sheen of sweat, but that wasn't what claimed Snape's attention. The Headmaster's right hand, barely visible beneath the enormous swath of cut velvet that made up the sleeve of his robe, had somehow blackened and twisted, looking like a tree scorched by a forest fire.

Then Dumbledore opened his eyes and looked directly at Snape. The bright blue gaze seemed somehow dulled. "Severus," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It appears I have need of your assistance."

Snape went immediately to the Headmaster and knelt down next to the chair, taking the maimed hand in his. The flesh felt as dry and cold as that of a mummy, as if all the blood and fluid had been drained out of it. "What have you done this time, Albus?" he inquired, the coolness of his tone belying the inner shock he felt at observing the alteration in Dumbledore's hand.

"Removed a little evil from the world, Severus," Dumbledore replied, still in that same strained murmur. His glance strayed to his left hand, to a ring Snape had never seen before, a heavy gold thing with an oddly cracked black stone in the center.

"What is it?" Snape asked.

"The ring of Salazar Slytherin -- and one of Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes, I am certain."

"_One_ of -- " Snape began, mind churning. Of course, he and the Headmaster had discussed this idea before; Dumbledore had thought for quite some time that Tom Riddle's diary had actually been a Horcrux, not simply possessed by an evil memory. "How many are there?"

"As to that, I don't know -- ah, Minerva. Thank you for being so prompt in fetching Severus here."

Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, Snape saw a slightly winded McGonagall enter the room and pause a few feet away. "That's what did it?" she asked, her gaze fastened on the Headmaster's withered hand.

Her horrified gaze brought Snape back to why he had come here. Time enough later to discuss theories and speculation. For now he had to focus on saving Dumbledore's arm.

Snape pushed the heavy velvet sleeve back and saw with consternation that the blackness which had consumed the hand had begun to move upward along the older man's forearm. If he looked closely enough, he thought he could actually see the slow progress of the poison or curse or whatever it was; it seemed to flow sluggishly along under the skin, like a tide of tainted black water.

"A powerful curse," Dumbledore said, each syllable seeming to require more effort for him to pronounce. "Of course such a thing as Voldemort's Horcrux would be protected..."

But what kind of curse, and what could possibly counteract such a spell? If it had been protecting the Horcrux contained in Slytherin's ring, then it would be something subtle, something not easily neutralized. The pulsing blackness beneath Dumbledore's skin seemed to mock him.

"How long?" he asked. "How long has it been since the curse first touched you?"

"An hour, no more," the Headmaster replied. His voice sounded even more weak, if possible.

Damn. Judging by the progress of the curse, Snape had less than half that time to come up with some sort of viable antidote or counterspell. He lifted his eyes to the perch where Fawkes made his home and knew immediately that the phoenix could be of no help here. The magical bird was clearly in its last stages of decline before final molting and rebirth; it drooped there looking like a plucked turkey.

"Yes, Fawkes cannot help me now," Dumbledore murmured. "Poor thing, he's feeling quite guilty."

Snape said bitterly, "His timing is impeccable."

The Headmaster closed his eyes, and a tremor went through his body.

"Severus!" McGonagall's voice shook.

Ignoring her, Snape returned his attention to Dumbledore's withered hand. Very well, then -- if the Horcrux had truly been contained within Salazar Slytherin's ring, and if Voldemort himself had set the curse, then Snape guessed that the Dark Lord had used some sort of snake venom as the catalyst. But which?

The blackness of the hand and arm suggested a venom that was proteotoxic -- flesh-destroying -- rather than neurotoxic. Good thing, or Dumbledore probably would have been dead already. Snake venom was not often used in potions, due to the difficulties involved in obtaining it and the generally dark nature of the magic involved in making such concoctions, but Snape had studied the subject quite thoroughly in his younger days, fascinated by both the slightly illicit nature of the topic and its connection to his own house of Slytherin. If the venom used was indeed proteotoxic, then that narrowed down where it could have come from. Probably some type of pit viper, and an Old World one that -- Snape doubted that Voldemort had bothered to import snake venom from the Americas.

"Stay with him," he told Minerva, then climbed to his feet. "I know what to do."

Disbelief mingled with terrible hope in the Transfigurations professor's face, but she merely nodded and went to Dumbledore's side, even as Snape pushed past her and pounded down the steps. An irrational part of his mind was glad that it was summer term and late at night as well; at least there was no one around to see him running down the corridors like a madman, bare feet slapping on the stone floors and his shabby dressing gown flying out behind him in a poor imitation of his professorial robes.

All the way down to the dungeon his brain kept working furiously, inventorying the contents of his private stores and hoping that what he had on hand would work. He did have a variety of venoms and anti-venins, locked carefully away from prying eyes, but it would need to be more subtle than that. Mixed with the minutest distillation of hellebore -- the plant's purgative abilities would be of use here, and then with a tiny pinch of dittany for purity --

Snape entered his office and went immediately to the small door which led to his storehouse. Moving quickly, he selected the jars of the common ingredients he needed, then went to the apothecary's chest that stood up against the far wall and murmured the words of the counterspell to open the locked drawers. Those drawers held the snake venom he hoped would be the vital component in an antidote to the poison coursing through Dumbledore's veins.

To make haste without being hasty -- that was the difficulty here. He could not let the fear that had knotted itself in his gut touch his mind, could not give in to the worry that he had pushed back into a dark corner of his soul. The delicate balances must be preserved, the cauldron heated just to the point of simmering but no further, or it would break down the delicate chemical relationships that would make the ingredients work as a coherent whole and not as a collection of elements that were toxic on their own.

A clock with a grimy face hung on the far wall of the office, but Snape did not dare lift his eyes to note the passage of time. Instinct took over, the sharpened reactions that had honed his natural talent into something far greater. At last a beaker of glistening opalescent fluid glimmered from between his anxious fingers, and Snape stoppered it, then pounded his way back up to the Headmaster's office.

Minerva met him at the entrance, her face looking whiter than ever against the plaid of her dressing gown.

"He isn't -- " Snape began. No, that was an impossibility. Dumbledore couldn't be dead. The universe wouldn't allow it.

"Not -- not yet -- "

"Not at all," he said grimly, moving past her to where Dumbledore sat slumped in his armchair. Snape once again knelt beside the chair, then placed the beaker against the Headmaster's lips. "Drink this, Albus."

The older man's eyes never opened, but his mouth parted slightly, allowing Snape to tip the gleaming fluid in. A second passed, then another.

Snape wouldn't have known which prayer to utter, even if he'd known any at all, but he waited grimly, offering an unspoken plea to whatever forces guided the universe that Albus Dumbledore wouldn't be taken from them so soon. Not now, when so many people were depending on him for guidance in these dark times.

The crepey eyelids fluttered. Then Albus opened his eyes, their blue a memory of the days before the gray pall had descended on the country, before the dementors roamed freely. He smiled. "Well done," he whispered.

Looking down, Snape saw that the dull black which had moved under Dumbledore's forearm seemed to be retreating. It gathered back down into the hand, which remained a withered husk. A moment went by in silence, but those blackened digits never regained any semblance of life. Mouth twisting, Snape shook his head. From a few feet away, Minerva McGonagall uttered something that sounded like a stifled "Thank goodness."

"A small price to pay," Dumbledore said, his voice sounding stronger now. "A hand for a piece of Voldemort's soul? I would have given much more."

An incomplete victory felt like no victory at all to Snape. Perhaps he had had too light a hand with the hellebore -- perhaps the dittany should have been added a few seconds later --

"Severus."

Forcing his gaze upward from the Headmaster's withered hand, Snape saw Dumbledore watching him carefully. The older man smiled a little, then said, "No one else could have done what you just did. Such evil magic will always exact its toll -- you would be naïve to think that I could escape completely unscathed."

Snape knew that Dumbledore was probably right, but still the sight of the Headmaster's blackened fingers angered him. Knowing there was no point in arguing the matter further, he asked instead, "Do you think the Dark Lord has any idea of what you've done?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "A Horcrux contains a piece of his soul, but the whole reason for a Horcrux is to enable the dark wizard to live on when other parts of him have been destroyed. That is why I believe Voldemort is still blissfully unaware that yet another portion of his soul is now gone."

How strange that the destruction of a piece of one's soul could be so unnoticed, like a fingernail paring or a lock of hair that had been cut away and discarded. Snape had had ample evidence over the years as to how little humanity remained to Voldemort, but somehow Dumbledore's comment made him realize that what they fought could very likely no longer even be called a man -- the Dark Lord was simply that, a being of vast power and utter darkness.

McGonagall stepped forward at last, shaking her head. "Albus, you must rest. You're still white as a sheet -- "

"Ah, wise Minerva. I must confess that I feel somewhat...drained. If you will assist me, Severus?"

And immediately Snape offered the Headmaster his arm, helping the old man to his feet. McGonagall moved swiftly to Dumbledore's other side, and between the two of them they managed to get him through his office and on into the bedchamber that occupied the other side of the tower. Only a few seconds after the Headmaster's head had touched the pillow his eyes shut once more, and Snape and McGonagall moved quietly back into the office. A reassuring snore drifted out of the bedchamber.

"I'll stay with him," Snape said immediately.

Minerva McGonagall opened her mouth as if to utter some protest, then shut it tightly and gave a small nod. "But I will come back in the morning, so you can get some rest," she said, in tones that did not invite any argument.

He inclined his head. It would be foolish to exhaust himself by maintaining a round-the-clock watch; by morning, Dumbledore should be out of the worst of danger. "As you wish."

"I do." She hesitated, then said, "That was very good work, Severus."

Luckily she spared him the effort of making a reply by pulling her dressing gown more tightly around herself and then marching, stiff-backed, out of the room. No doubt the effort of giving him a compliment had used up whatever stores of energy she might have had remaining.

He stood for a moment in the center of the office, watching the tiny gilded instruments as they shimmered in the candlelight, all the time making their tiny whirring noises and letting off infinitesimal puffs of smoke. Fawkes let out a weary sigh, and tucked his drooping head under one wing. Then Snape went to the armchair Dumbledore had previously occupied, sat down, and prepared himself for a very long night.

* * *

As Snape had hoped, the Headmaster was much improved in the morning, although not quite ready to be up and about. Minerva McGonagall sent Madam Pomfrey in to take over nursemaid duties, and Snape escaped to his own quarters to steal a few hours of sleep. He had been so worried about Dumbledore the entire time he had quite forgotten about Celeste Jenkins, but once Snape laid himself down in his own narrow bed he found it quite difficult to get the rest he knew he needed. If Voldemort had somehow managed to lay hands on the girl Snape felt certain he would have been summoned to the Dark Lord's presence, but for some reason that thought did little to comfort him. He should be doing something. He should be there in Manchester, looking out for her.

But Dumbledore needed him more than Celeste Jenkins did...perhaps. Now that the antidote had been administered, and the Headmaster was in Pomfrey's care, was Snape's presence even required here at Hogwarts? He couldn't stay indefinitely at any rate; within the next day or so he would need to return to Spinner's End. But before then he could go back to Manchester, check to make sure that Celeste was all right, and give her the first Occlumency lesson. She had done very well with the Expelliarmus spell. Perhaps her knowledge of that one defensive charm would be enough to take an attacker off guard for those vital few seconds that would allow her to escape, since any Death Eaters Voldemort sent after her would no doubt be expecting a helpless Muggle as their prey.

Still, he couldn't be sure of that, and the chance that she could be discovered at any moment preyed on his mind. The only way he could catch any sleep was to promise himself that he would go to Manchester and reassure himself as to her safety, as well as to teach her the beginnings of Occlumency. None of Voldemort's followers were much good at Legilimency, so she would not have to be particularly adept to put them off the scent. And as he finally fell into the oblivion he sought, he told himself that his concern over Celeste Jenkins was merely fueled by a desire to keep an innocent out of Voldemort's clutches -- that, and nothing more.

* * *

Snape overslept, and cursed himself for his weakness. But there was no help for it, although he had hoped to return to Manchester by midday, to get to Celeste's before she began to see clients, none of whom seemed to show up before three in the afternoon. By the time he had risen, dressed, looked in on Dumbledore, and hastily eaten a piece of bread and butter, the day was wearing on toward four o'clock. All of his Muggle clothing was still at Spinner's End, which meant he had to go to Manchester wearing his customary professor's robes and simply hope that no one would be around to note his precipitate arrival in Celeste's backyard.

The little bit of sun that had managed to peek out the day before had once again been eclipsed by a layer of dank, low-hanging gray clouds. Snape Apparated into the yard, wand out and ready to Obliviate any Muggles who might have had the misfortune to see him. But his luck held on that point at least; the neighbors' yards and the alleyway were as deserted as they had been the previous morning. Perhaps they were all on holiday.

He knocked, knowing that he had once again ignored her requests and had come here without any prior notice or warning. But if the bloody girl couldn't even cope with receiving an owl, he was damned if he was going to muck around with Muggle post or telephones to accommodate her. He could handle her irritation. After all, he spent very little time worrying about whether people liked him or not...

This time Celeste took even longer to answer the door; he'd had to knock once more before it slowly swung outward. At least today she was dressed -- unfortunately in jeans and one of her vaguely Renaissance-looking tops -- but her expression was far from welcoming.

"I'm with a client," she said with a frown. "Is it really so impossible for you to let me know in advance when you're coming over?"

"Get rid of him -- or her," he replied. "We have work to do."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Get rid -- who the bloody hell do you think you are?"

"I assure you, whatever petty concern has driven this person to seek your services is of far less importance than our work together."

"Oh, I'll just let them know you said that!" For a second Celeste glared up at him, green eyes blazing, but after he took a step toward her, fully intending to push his way past her into the kitchen, she moved aside and slammed the kitchen door. "Don't you dare," she said, catching his arm before he could advance any further into the house. "Just wait in here." And then she let go of him and stalked out into the hallway, muttering under her breath.

While Snape couldn't say he actually enjoyed her being so angry with him, he was relieved that at least she'd had the sense not to continue the argument. The kitchen was as good a place as any to linger, so he leaned up against the counter and waited.

Within five minutes Celeste was back, angry color still flushing her cheeks. "You probably just cost me a client, Severus! What the hell was so goddamned important?"

"Your life," he said quietly.

She went very still, watching him out of wary eyes. "You've heard something else, then?"

"Not exactly," Snape replied. "But you are fooling yourself if you think that one spell will be enough to keep Voldemort's Death Eaters at bay."

For a moment she was silent, obviously weighing over his words in her mind. "I suppose you're right," she said at last. "But this dropping in -- maybe we should just make our own appointments."

"I regret that my current schedule is somewhat irregular," he said stiffly, wondering why he should feel annoyed that she'd want to schedule him in the way she would one of her clients. "And since you don't want me to send an owl -- "

"Oh, stop with the owls already," Celeste snapped. "Really, if it's that bloody inconvenient -- " She shook her head. "Just have them come to the back door at least."

Perhaps it was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. "Of course."

"Would you like anything?" she asked then, her tone brisk, discarding the argument. "Cup of tea? Glass of water?"

"Nothing, thank you."

"Suit yourself." Celeste opened a cupboard and pulled out a heavy greenish glass, then went to the refrigerator and poured herself some water from a pitcher inside. "So what is it today? More Expelliarmus? Shield charms?"

"Occlumency."

For some reason she started a bit at that, splashing water on the butcher-block countertop before recovering herself. Without comment she retrieved a dish towel from a drawer and blotted at the mess, then hung the damp piece of cloth from the refrigerator door handle. "Oh," she said. "Guess I should have known that was coming."

"We did discuss it previously," Snape reminded her, wondering why she should seem to ill at ease. Then again, he supposed for someone who made a practice of going into other people's minds it might be rather disconcerting to be on the receiving end of such attention for once.

"Of course," Celeste said automatically. "Well, the reading room's all set and ready to go, so -- " Letting the words trail off, she straightened slightly and then headed out of the kitchen, with Snape following behind. Although that last comment had sounded off-hand and relaxed enough, it was impossible to ignore the tense set of her shoulders through the gauzy shirt, or the nervous way she had tugged at the tail of the garment as she walked ahead of him.

As she had said, the table with its crystal ball had been returned to its place in the center of the room, with two chairs facing one another on either side. Celeste pulled out one of them and sat down, carefully placing her glass of water on top of the embroidered piano scarf that served as a tablecloth.

Snape took a seat of his own and sat facing her, his hands folded on the tabletop. "Occlumency," he said, "is the art of concealing one's thoughts and emotions from external forces, specifically those who would employ Legilimency against one. Although Lord Voldemort is a highly skilled Legilimens, those who are looking for you are far less gifted. However, that does not mean that you should let down your guard. It merely means that simple blocking will serve, instead of the sort of selective obfuscation which is the only way to prevent self-betrayal." He looked across the table at Celeste, who nodded slowly, even though her face was still pale with worry. Strange; he would have thought she'd be slightly reassured by knowing she wouldn't have to master the more advanced aspects of the art.

"Clear your mind," he went on. "Most especially you should focus on removing any thoughts which involve magic, or your background, or the fact that you are anything except the Muggle everyone believes you to be." His eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed the slight tremor of her hand when she raised it to push a lock of hair back over her shoulder. "This includes any thoughts of me. Should any of Voldemort's followers learn that I have been training you, I would be placed in jeopardy as well. If possible, you should avoid eye contact. A Legilimens will always try to force you to meet his eyes. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Her voice sounded far steadier than she looked. She took in a long breath through her nose, her mouth clamped shut. With her eyes cast down toward the embroidered table covering, she said, "I'm ready."

Snape nodded, then murmured, "Celeste…"

To her credit, she did not glance up at him. He thought he saw the faintest jerk of her chin when he spoke her name, but she remained as she was, studiedly staring down at the pattern of twining leaves and multicolored flowers that decorated the piano scarf. Even though she would not meet his gaze, he continued to stare at her, looking at the dark crescents of her lashes against her cheeks, the curve of her eyebrows above the downcast eyes. He reached out to her mind then, sensing nothing at first. Very good -- coming up to her first defense felt like walking into a dense fog bank. He could sort out no individual impressions, no betraying memories.

Perhaps she had learned over the years to shield herself naturally; it made sense, considering how closely she worked with other people's minds. Although Snape had never had to consciously shield himself from one of Voldemort's followers -- only their master -- he had a good sense of their abilities and felt fairly certain that the defenses Celeste had put up now would be sufficient to prevent them from learning any more about her. But he worried that wouldn't be good enough -- perhaps Voldemort had someone in his employ who had hidden his or her abilities from Snape even as Snape had hidden his true motivations from the lot of them.

So he probed more deeply.

Flickers of memory, of random images, surged around him. Still they were commonplaces -- running to the store, feeding the cat, arguing the merits of a lacy shirt in a shop window with a plump fair-haired girl of about Celeste's age. Nothing incriminating, nothing that any follower of Voldemort would associate with anything but the most mundane of Muggle existences.

But then he caught a glimpse of her stacking the dishes from their dinner together. Again, nothing of note there -- unless one ignored the feeling of longing that suffused the entire memory. Frowning, he pressed further, even as he saw Celeste dig her fingers into the embroidered flowers that lay beneath her hands. What had caused her to be filled with such yearning?

Snape could feel her fight against him, feel her mind rally against his, even as it summoned images of laundry and grocery shopping and sitting at the pub while laughing at someone's joke. _Very good, Celeste_, he thought, but it wasn't enough. Because her memories of the pub became linked with an image of a tall black-haired man, a man around whom all the aching desire seemed to swirl and then come into focus.

To center, it seemed, on himself.

He blinked, and pushed his chair back, breaking the contact. Impossible -- he must be reading those memories incorrectly --

"Was that -- was that terribly awful?" she asked.

Snape forced himself to look at her. The worry had never left her eyes, but something in her pale face told him that she had no idea of what exactly he had seen.

"No," he said, his voice a harsh rasp. He cleared his throat, then went on, "Not bad for a first attempt. I pushed you harder than perhaps I should have."

"No, I don't think so. You just want me to be able to protect myself."

True enough, but Snape knew he would never be able to forget what he had seen in her mind. Oh, perhaps there had been hints and clues before, but he had ignored them, remained oblivious. It was easy enough, when he had never been the recipient of such feelings before.

How was it possible? How could a young woman such as Celeste Jenkins -- bright, beautiful, talented Celeste -- have ever come to care for him, Severus Snape, black bat of the Hogwarts dungeons? Had she no idea of who -- of _what_ -- he was?

Of course she didn't. He hadn't bothered to tell her anything of the less savory aspects of his past. Perhaps he, weak fool that he was, had enjoyed being with someone who knew nothing about him just a little too much. And now -- now --

He stood. At least by now she should be somewhat used to his precipitous comings and goings. He knew he had to get out of here now, someplace away from her worried green eyes and the damned sweet smell of her hair, someplace where he could think. "Keep practicing," he snapped. "And don't take on any new clients, no matter what."

Celeste's face was resigned. "You're leaving."

"I must."

If she thought he was lying, her features didn't betray the fact. Perhaps she was learning something from him after all. She only nodded and said, "I'll practice." The dimple briefly resurfaced in her cheek. "And I promise I won't talk to strangers."

Snape couldn't ask for anything else. He could only hope that her luck would hold, that her anonymity would shield her for a while longer. Just long enough for him to try and process this new information, and to figure out how he could possibly be around her, knowing what he did.

All he needed was time. Time to come up with the best way of telling Celeste Jenkins that loving him was hopeless...

...and time to convince himself that he couldn't possibly feel the same way about her.


	12. Chapter 12

Thank you for all the wonderful reviews -- I seemed to have picked up some new readers, and of course that makes me do the happy dance. ;-) We're in for a slight change of scenery here...

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Twelve

_From the diary of Celeste Jenkins:_

July 5, 1996

I am writing this from Aberystwyth, Wales.

I've never been to Wales before, which of course is why I came here in the first place. That way it'll be much harder to find me.

It's really lovely here. Right now the sun is setting over Cardigan Bay, and the promenade is alive with tourists catching the last bits of daylight. Everything is molten gold and royal blue; somehow the dank grayness that has covered much of the country hasn't made its way to the Welsh coast.

But I'm getting ahead of myself again. I suppose it's important for me to put that down, just to remind myself that I'm safe -- for now, at any rate.

After Severus Disapparated I knew I'd done something dreadfully wrong. Oh, he'd left in haste before, but there was an unease in his manner I'd never seen before. Somehow he must have caught the truth in my mind, had seen something of my feelings for him. I'd tried to hide them, done the best I could, and for a few minutes I thought I really had bested him.

I should have known better.

Exactly what he saw, I don't know, for of course we never had a chance to discuss the Occlumency lesson. Part of me is irritated that he would take himself off like that, running away like a schoolboy who just found out his best friend's sister was soft on him. Really, you'd think that a man of his age would have a little more emotional maturity. Deep down, though, I'm upset that he broke through my defenses so easily, that he found out in such a way. It doesn't really matter that on some level he feels an attraction to me -- I'm his duty, his charge, and I can tell he has such a tight hold on his emotions that he'd never admit to such a thing openly. Having it thrust in his face like that must have been very difficult.

Anyhow, afterward I was a bundle of nerves, unable to concentrate on anything, filled with that restlessness I sometimes refer to as my "anywhere but here" mode. When I get like that I just need to get out, to get away, go someplace to clear my head. Sometimes just a walk down Oldham Street is enough to satisfy the urge. But I could tell this wasn't one of those times. Suddenly I felt certain that the only thing which would do would be to get out of Manchester proper, to take a walk by the Mersey, to watch the sunset and smell the open wind from the moors.

Wonderful idea, except that I don't own a car. Most of the time this isn't really a problem, as one doesn't need a car in Manchester, public transit being more than sufficient. Anyhow, I figured I'd just go down to Topham's and see if Miles, the owner, was anywhere about. He'd let me borrow his battered '68 Morris Minor before, and if he was on shift he wouldn't be needing it for a few hours anyway.

As luck would have it -- or not, depending on how you look at these things -- Miles was in, rolling a new keg behind the bar. He grinned at me and asked me if I wanted a pint.

"Not now,"I said, although the thought of a drink sounded very appealing at the moment. "Actually, I was wondering if I could borrow the Minor."

He straightened up and looked at me quizzically. His face was long and thin, topped with heavy brows, so when he lifts his eyebrows like that the whole geometry of his face seems to alter, like something you'd see in a fun house mirror. Once upon a time he'd tried to get me to go out with him, but after he figured out I wasn't really interested he was still willing to be friends. I've always looked on the crew at Topham's as sort of an extended family, and that feeling in large part is due to Miles and his openhanded generosity.

"Everything all right?" he asked. "You look a bit done up."

That was probably an understatement, considering the afternoon I'd had, but I still gave him a mock-severe glare and replied, "Miles, you know you should never hint that a girl is ever looking anything but her best."

"Oh, right." One eyebrow remained tilted at a questioning angle. "Sure, I've got the car behind the pub. Going far?"

"No, just a quick drive out of town. I'll have it back in a few hours."

He fished in the pocket of his baggy jeans and then pulled out a key ring with a scratched-up Manchester United fob. "I just filled 'er up, so there should be plenty of petrol."

"I'll replace whatever I use -- " I began, but he waved me off.

"For as short a trip as that? You won't even use up a liter."

I thanked him, then promised I'd have a pint of Boddington's when I got back. After that I went out the back entrance to the alley, where I found the car parked.

Luckily I'd driven the Minor before; although I didn't own a car myself, I felt it was important to keep my hand in. When I was in prep Boddy had taught me to drive, as neither of my parents had known how. At the time I hadn't really thought much about their reticence to get behind the wheel of a car -- lots of people in Manchester don't drive, after all. But as I slid into the Minor and inhaled the scent of stale tobacco and decaying upholstery, I wondered whether my parents avoided automobiles because of a wizardly distrust of Muggle technology.

Traffic was fairly heavy -- at this point it was around half-past five, and vehicles choked the streets as people fought to get home after work. In a way I almost welcomed the crush, since it forced me to concentrate on the road and the sticky gearbox instead of what in the world I was going to do about Severus Snape. Eventually I maneuvered my way onto the M62 and headed out of the city center, going roughly southwest.

By that time it was past six o'clock, and although the sun wouldn't set for a few more hours the day had already taken on an extra drabness, as if it were tired of pretending to be early July when it looked and felt like the dregs of winter. I pulled off the highway and onto a much smaller two-lane road that ran roughly parallel to the river. Some years back my parents had taken me for a picnic in this area, and I remembered that there was a gravelly bit not too far down where I could park the car and walk.

No danger of running into any picnickers at this point -- a light mist had begun to fall, and I cursed myself for not throwing a cardigan on over my gauzy shirt. Still, I'd come all the way out here, and I was damned if I was going to let a little chill keep me from walking to the river.

At least the air smelled good, damp and grassy, with a faint overlay of honest moist earth. I walked through the mist and the rain, lifting my face to the wind and taking in great deep breaths. No one else was about, and I could feel the turmoil in my brain begin to settle. That matters were in an awkward place with Severus I couldn't deny, but somehow out here, away from the city and its noise, I found that things didn't look as black as I had thought. When he came back we'd simply have to sit down and talk like rational adults. Surely that wasn't completely out of the question, was it? After all, if you got right down to the heart of it, he was a man and I was a woman, and if we were attracted to one another, the rest was just details, wasn't it?

I don't know what it was that made me stop and hold myself very still. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and suddenly a wave of icy cold engulfed me, a chill far greater than anything I'd felt from the moisture-laden air. At the same time I had an overwhelming impression of despair, as if every dark memory from my past had swarmed up to assail me at once. I saw the waxy faces of my parents in the morgue, then the sound of the earth being dropped on their coffins -- I watched Alex moving away from me down the walk, disappearing from my life forever -- I recalled the night when that dark and murderous presence had lingered for so long on my front step and a formless dread had struck me. What was the point, after all? Why bother with existence, when it was merely a series of painful moments? And how could I possibly think that a man like Severus Snape would have a second thought for a silly girl like me?

Paradoxically, I believe it was he who saved me. Only a second after his frowning image appeared in my mind it seemed as if I heard his voice railing at me. _Fight it, foolish girl! Make your mind a blank, and they will have no power over you!_

_They?_ I thought, and turned sluggishly, fighting to make the grayness in my mind match the dusky, mist-clouded dusk around me.

And that's when I saw them. Two enormous robed figures moved forward out of the fog, skeletal hands reaching toward me. I didn't know what they were -- they looked like the distillation of every nightmare about death mankind has ever had -- but I immediately knew that it was me they sought. Somehow they had brought the despair with them -- it swirled around them even as the mist did, a foggy exhalation of despondency that surely was meant to drown its victims in a black anguish from which there could be no escape.

Although my mind felt frozen, my body somehow found the will to react. I bolted then back toward the car, running as I never had before. Bits of gravel sprayed up past my flat-heeled shoes as I pounded through the rain and mist. I didn't dare look back, but the cold followed me, and I knew they couldn't be far behind.

I know it must have looked like every horror film cliché in the book -- the lonely female, the desperate scrabbling in the jeans pocket for the car keys as the inhuman predators closed in. But there was nothing remotely commonplace about the terror I felt close up my throat or cause my heart to pound so heavily that it felt as if it would surely burst through my ribcage. At least -- unlike most slasher-film heroines -- I got the key in the lock on the first try. I flung myself into the Minor and punched the door lock, then shoved the key into the ignition. Icy condensation began to form on the windscreen even as a shadow fell across the driver's-side window.

Thank God that Miles always took good care of the car's mechanicals, even though its exterior left a great deal to be desired. The Minor started after a minor hiccup, and I engaged the clutch even as I pushed the pedal to the floor.

My head slammed backward against the 'rest, but I didn't care. With a spatter of gravel and a few protests from the abused gearbox, the car screeched back onto the access road, leaving those -- whatever-they-were -- far behind. I risked a quick glance in the rearview mirror and saw them moving down the road after me, but it was clear that they could not match the car's velocity.

Still, I didn't let up until I hit the M62 once again, and even then I went a good thirty kilometers over the speed limit. Not until I reached the familiar environs of Manchester proper did I ease up a bit. All the same, I kept throwing furtive glances over my shoulder, wondering if somehow they'd managed to track me here. And once I'd parked the car in the alley behind Topham's I sat there for a long moment, shivering as the reaction hit me.

What on earth were those things? Followers of Voldemort? Somehow I didn't think so; from the way Severus had spoken of the people who might be looking for me, I had assumed they were wizards and witches -- far from ordinary, but still human. And those things out by the Mersey had definitely not been human.

I gathered up my bag and let myself out of the car, faintly shocked to discover that my knees felt like rubber. I had to lay a hand on the fender for a moment to steady myself.

_Don't think about it_, I told myself. _Otherwise, Miles is going to take one look at you and know that something's horribly wrong._

Somehow I did manage to hold it together once I was back in the pub. But I also knew that whatever else I did, there was no way I was going to spend the night in my house alone.

Luckily Miles was occupied with customers when I finally forced myself to walk up to the bar. I managed a shaky smile and tossed him the keys, then pantomimed making a phone call and disappeared back to the dim recess between the loos where the call box was located.

I glanced at my watch. Nearly seven. So probably Fiona would be home from work. Occasionally she had to stay late at the office if they were working on a big project, but never on a Friday night.

The phone rang four times before she picked up, however. At least the wait gave me time to manufacture a story. I told her that I'd locked myself out of the house and that the locksmiths I'd tried had already gone home for the evening; would she be a love and let me stay over tonight?

She paused and said, "Well, I have a date with Roger -- "

Oh, damn -- that bloke from the legal department at her firm. Still, at the moment impinging on Fiona's social life appealed to me far more than sitting at home alone in my house and wondering when those..._things_...were going to show up again. "If you're going out, I don't think it should be a huge bother," I replied. "He doesn't even have to know I'm there."

I could practically feel her hesitation flowing over the telephone lines. But being the good friend that she is, after a moment she sighed and said, "Oh, all right, then. If things progress, we'll just have to end up at Roger's house." She paused, then said with a laugh, "Just don't wait up for me."

Practically sagging with relief, I said, "No problem. I'll be over in a bit."

And after that I went out and thanked Miles again for the loan of his car, then walked up the street to a chemist's that I knew stayed open late and bought myself a toothbrush, along with a few other items I thought I might need. Because I was afraid to spend too much time wandering the streets, I hailed a cab and went straight to Fiona's.

She was looking fabulous in a low-cut sweater and skirt ensemble that played up her greatest assets and played down those she wasn't quite as fond of. I apologized profusely, she said it was no bother, and even though I offered to disappear into her spare bedroom when Roger showed up, she wouldn't hear anything of it and insisted that I meet him when he arrived.

"Besides," she said frankly, "you can shake his hand and get the measure of him. Just let me know if he's serious or if he's just in this to get some ass."

I gave her a shocked look -- Fiona was much more experienced in such matters than I, as Alex had been my one and only partner in the bedroom, but I didn't have time to say anything in reply, since at that moment the doorbell rang.

Roger turned out to be very nice, a tall brown-haired man in his early thirties with the sort of smile that put you instantly at ease. Of course it could have all been an act -- he was a solicitor, after all -- but when I shook his hand I got nothing but a friendly confused jumble, overlaid with a good deal of honest admiration for Fiona. When they got ready to leave, Fiona arched an eyebrow at me, and I gave her a thumbs-up sign. Perhaps my personal life was a complete mess, but at least Fiona's seemed to be going in the right direction.

And after that I had the empty flat to myself. Refusing to brood, I found a stack of videocassettes on top of the player, three of which proved to be the recent remake of _Pride and Prejudice_. That seemed like a good way to use up the evening; I needed to focus on something else, to avoid brooding over what had happened to me earlier. My choice proved to be an excellent one, although I couldn't help wondering who would come out ahead in a snark-off, Severus Snape or the redoubtable Mr. Darcy. By the time I'd made my way through all three tapes it was past one in the morning, and still no sign of Fiona. I couldn't help smiling. Apparently she'd been correct in telling me not to wait up.

The spare bedroom in the flat functioned as both an office and a guest chamber. Fiona had already made up the single bed with fresh sheets, and I climbed in between them gratefully, glad to be someplace where I hoped no one could find me. But that couldn't last -- or, more to the point, I realized that I had to move from this temporary haven to someplace far less likely.

But where? Somehow the thought of going to another urban center such as London or even Birmingham or Liverpool didn't appeal to me. No, better someplace quiet but not too isolated -- I somehow knew it would be wise to have some people about me -- and preferably someplace I hadn't been before. Damn it, if Voldemort and his minions were going to force me to flee my home, at least I could try to make something of a holiday out of it.

I suppose that's what led me to think of Wales. I'd never been there, despite its proximity to Manchester. Oh, my family had traveled quite a bit for our holidays -- Cornwall, Bath, the Lake Country, even the south of France one glorious summer when I was fifteen and my father had gotten an especially hefty bonus. But somehow we'd never gone to Wales, and once I was on my own I'd become so immersed in the life I tried to make for myself that I honestly hadn't thought of traveling much. Fiona and I made a pilgrimage to London's twice a year for some shopping and to take in a few shows in the West End, but other than that I really hadn't left Manchester.

Something about Wales appealed to me. It was supposed to be beautiful, of course, and since most of the towns were quite small compared to Manchester, I could get the combination of quiet surroundings yet with enough people around that I wouldn't have to be completely alone.

Once that was decided on, I shut my eyes and forced myself to fall asleep. Late as it was, and as psychically and emotionally draining as my encounters with those monsters had been, I found it difficult to get myself to settle down and relax. Images from the show I had just watched flitted across my mind, and I thought of that final scene when Elizabeth and Darcy kissed at last. I wondered then what it would be like to have Severus kiss me, to feel his arms close around me and those magnificent robes envelop us both. My body cramped with longing, and suddenly I felt myself almost overcome with wanting him -- and not even altogether in a physical sense. I just wanted to hear his voice and have him with me, to tell me I was overreacting and give me some perfectly plausible explanation for what had happened to me that afternoon. I wanted all of him. I wanted him to hold me in the dark, and tell me everything would be all right...

The next morning there was still no sign of Fiona, so I roused myself and took a shower, then got dressed in the clothes I had worn the day before. In the watery morning light I felt a little bit less worried about going home -- and I would have to, if only to pack up my things and make a few phone calls.

I left a note for Fiona thanking her for her hospitality and hoping that she'd spent a good evening, then took a cab back to my house. When I let myself in, it seemed as if everything had been undisturbed, although HBC let me know -- loudly -- that she did not appreciate being abandoned for the evening. I felt slightly less guilty when I checked on her food and water and found that she still had plenty of both.

"You're going to hate me even more very soon," I told the cat, after I had opened up a special tin of tuna for her. Normally I kept her on dry food, but I felt the occasion merited some indulgence. But I also knew I would have to board her -- I couldn't imagine a hotel accepting a cat, and my plan to slip out of Manchester unnoticed would be completely undone if I started ringing up my friends and asking them if they could watch my cat for a while. Besides, I didn't even have any real idea of how long I would be gone. I just had the overwhelming feeling that if I lingered in town much longer something even worse than those robed monsters might track me down.

For the next hour I busied myself on the phone, making arrangements. First off, I called everyone who had appointments for the next two weeks and let them know that something had come up, and I wouldn't be able to see them after all. Most took the news with equanimity, but a few asked awkward questions, which I dodged as best I could. I hated lying, but of course there was no way I could tell them the truth.

After that I rang up the National kiosk at the airport and booked myself an inexpensive Vauxhall Corsa because I had to get an open-ended contract. While it might have been fun to go zipping about the Welsh countryside in a Saab 9-5, the cost would have been prohibitive after the first week or so. And the travel agent I contacted was able to get me a room in what was supposed to be a very nice guest house.

"Only because of a last-minute cancellation," she told me, in tones that made it sound as if she wasn't quite sure I was worthy of the accommodations.

"I'll take it," I said immediately, and that was done. I knew I was lucky; dank weather or no, we were at the height of the summer holidays, and rooms in a tourist spot such as Aberystwyth were hard to come by.

Then I went on to pack what I thought I might need -- jeans and skirts and comfortable tops, along with a few jumpers and a proper coat in case the weather turned nasty. While packing my underwear my hand hesitated over a frothy bit of wine-colored satin and lace I'd bought while I was seeing Alex. It was probably foolish to pack it, but after all, it didn't take up much room, so in it went. I didn't let myself think about how much I wanted to wear it for Severus.

Throughout these proceedings HBC looked on with an increasingly jaundiced eye, and by the time I brought down the cat carrier from the attic she bolted under the bed. After much cursing and a few scratches I was able to haul her out and put her in the carrier. Then I rang up my vet's, who luckily had Saturday morning hours, to see about boarding HBC. The assistant said they could take her, and so I hurried her over -- the office was only two streets away -- and ran back home. Somehow the place seemed empty and forlorn already, with the cat gone and my two suitcases waiting for me in the hall.

On the cab ride over to pick up my car from the airport, I wondered whether I was doing the right thing. All I had to go on was a hunch and my feelings of increasing dread. But although I'd never been able to see my own future before, I certainly wasn't going to ignore what all my instincts were telling me. Once I was safely in Wales I'd ring up Fiona and let her know that I was all right -- I just wouldn't disclose my location. Getting word to Severus about where I had gone was an entirely different matter. I had no idea where Hogwarts was even located, let alone how to get a message to him there; I got the feeling that a school for wizardry mightn't even have a telephone.

_Well, he _is _a wizard_, I told myself. _I'll just have to hope he has some nifty spell for tracking down missing people...and that Voldemort doesn't have the same spell_.

Despite my reasons for leaving Manchester, I actually found myself enjoying the drive to Aberystwyth. It was a trip of a little more than two hundred kilometers, which meant it shouldn't take more than three hours or so, although the agent at the National kiosk did warn me that the roads in Wales were a little tricky and that I shouldn't expect any nice smooth motorways such as we had around town. She was right -- by the time I had entered Ceredigion proper the road had dwindled to a narrow two-lane affair that wound through some of the most stunning countryside I had ever seen. The terrain was much hillier than I had imagined, and although the little Corsa protested at the grades once or twice, it soldiered on, carrying me into Aberystwyth around three in the afternoon.

Mrs. Evans, the owner of Bodalwyn House, helped me with my suitcases herself, all the while keeping a running commentary about the local sights and the best pubs and shops in her lovely but difficult to understand accent. Feeling a little overwhelmed, I just smiled and nodded, assured her that I would be down promptly at six for supper, then shut the door behind her and allowed myself a sigh of relief.

It was a lovely room, really, with dark antiques and a nice large bed. I was able to catch a glimpse of the sea out of one of the windows, and the place was spotlessly clean. Reassured by my surroundings, I felt a little less mad than I had earlier in the day, when I wondered if I had completely lost my mind to be running off like this.

After supper I walked to the shore and breathed in the clean salt air, feeling curiously relieved to be surrounded by people who didn't know who I was and apparently didn't care. The other residents of the guests house were a mix of English and Welsh, and while they seemed a friendly enough lot, it was fairly obvious that they were here to enjoy themselves, not pry into other people's business. Mrs. Evans did seem rather curious about me, but after I had given deliberately vague answers to several of her questions she seemed to realize that I was not inclined to divulge any personal information.

And now that I'm caught up with all this, it's time to sleep. I find that I'm completely exhausted, and perhaps that weariness, combined with the ever-present murmur of the sea, will help me to find the rest I so desperately need. Perhaps if I lie here and think of Severus, try to send my thoughts across the gap that separates us, he'll know where to find me. That sounds insane, I know, but so many insane things have happened to me lately that I no longer know what's possible and what isn't. I can only hope that the connection between us is strong enough that he'll somehow find a way to be at my side...


	13. Chapter 13

I was in a hurry to get this uploaded before running off to dinner, so please forgive any typos!

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Thirteen

Silence fell on Spinner's End. In a cluttered, poorly lit room, three half-empty wine glasses bore mute testimony to those who had lately occupied it.

Snape had known some day it might come to this, but that forethought did little to reassure him now. _It may fall to any of us to make the ultimate sacrifice_, Dumbledore had once told him. _All we can do is face the future with courage, knowing that we have done our part to defeat the greatest evil the world has ever known._

No, Dumbledore did not fear death, and Snape himself had found the world a bitter enough cup that at the time he had not thought he would much regret leaving it. Now, however...

He shook his head and drained the last of the elf-made wine, trying to rid his mind of the sound of Narcissa's voice, the feel of her hands grasping the front of his robes. Once upon a time he would have been very glad to have her standing so close, to have those huge sky-colored eyes staring beseechingly up into his. Now he could only think of what it might have been like to have another woman be so near, one whose eyes were a deep warm green, not pale blue.

The knowledge that there was no way he could have avoided making the Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa and still maintain his position as a true supporter of Voldemort offered him little comfort. Bellatrix's hooded dark eyes seemed to mock him. Good thing she had had no idea of what calmly agreeing to make the Vow had actually cost him. Even as he had knelt before Narcissa and offered his hands to her, part of his mind had screamed at him, _What are you doing? You're agreeing to assist in murdering the only friend you have in the world!_

But as he had done so many other times, he had pushed those thoughts away, kept his mind blank and attuned to the task before him. Oh, he knew that neither Bellatrix nor Narcissa was a Legilimens of any great skill, but the habit had been so ingrained in him by this time that he did it almost without thinking. It was only after they had left, their dark cloaks allowing them to melt away seamlessly into the night, that he found himself trembling with reaction. Usually he was very careful in his drinking -- he had the bad example of his father and the worry over appearing in front of Voldemort even slightly impaired to ensure that he did not over-indulge -- but Snape knew he needed the rest of that wine now.

Damn Narcissa anyhow. Her over-protectiveness regarding Draco had only increased after Lucius had been imprisoned in Azkaban. Oh, Snape could understand why; as longtime acquaintance of the Malfoys, he knew just how many desperate attempts for more children Narcissa had endured after Draco had been born, how many miscarriages she had suffered before the couple gave up entirely. Not for Cissy the happy fecundity of a Molly Weasley -- really, the Weasley woman should have been born a rabbit. No, all of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy's hopes had been pinned on Draco. And now he, Severus Snape, had been dragged into Narcissa's desperate attempts to shield her son as well.

Still, there was no help for it. Dumbledore would understand why he had made the Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa. Indeed, if their roles had been reversed, the Headmaster would most likely have done the same. Oddly enough, the thought was not entirely reassuring.

Snape knew he should return to Hogwarts as soon as possible. Dumbledore would have to be warned, of course, although Snape knew if fate should decree that his be the hand to strike the Headmaster down, Dumbledore would do nothing to prevent it.

The hair on the back of Snape's neck prickled. Back on the similarly shabby street where he had grown up, old Mrs. Witherspoon would have likely said that a goose had just walked over his grave. Perhaps she would have even been right. Snape had very little use for Divination, but even he had to admit that sometimes, for better or worse, the veil between present and future parted just enough to allow those gifted -- or cursed -- in such things to catch a glimpse of the other side.

Those thoughts led him inevitably back to Celeste Jenkins. He had left things badly there, he knew -- but blast it, why on earth would that foolish girl ever allow herself to become attached to him? Had he ever given her the slightest encouragement? No, but in a way that was even worse, because that meant she had somehow grown to care for him in spite of himself, despite his brusque manner and sharp tongue, his unkempt hair and sour face.

Had, in fact, come to love him in the way he once dreamed of, back when he was a stupid schoolboy who thought perhaps the world wasn't the cold, hateful place it had turned out to be. There had been another girl with green eyes once...

But that memory got shoved back into the darkness where it belonged. Whatever Celeste Jenkins might feel for him -- and whatever he might feel for her -- it didn't change the fact that Voldemort had his followers actively looking for her. That she was in danger. Even though worry for her gnawed at him like a constant mental toothache, he hadn't yet come up with a satisfactory means of watching over her. Of course he hadn't dared to leave any magical items in her home that could be used for communication; they would have given her away should the Death Eaters ever discover where she lived, and very likely betrayed his own involvement with her as well. Even owls were a risk -- lately there had been rumors that the previously inviolate method of communication had somehow been compromised by the Dark Lord. No, the isolation was necessary, for both their sakes, although Snape had begun to wonder whether it might be prudent to remove Celeste to a location where she wasn't known.

Abandoning the sitting room and the memory of what had happened there, Snape moved quickly up the rickety staircase to his room on the second floor. Wormtail was nowhere in evidence, but that meant little. The rodent had a definite knack for hiding around corners, looking through keyholes.

_Well, just try to look through mine_, Snape thought viciously. _You'll find a wand jabbing you in the eyeball, you rat-faced git._

On one wall of the shabby chamber he was forced to call his there hung a small, plain oval mirror in a flaking gilt frame. Its ostensible purpose was as a shaving mirror, but it had another, hidden use. The false Mad-Eye Moody had owned a Foe Glass, a mirror that showed one's enemies and their movements. Snape's mirror followed the same basic principle, only in reverse -- it was a Friend Glass, and only revealed those Snape truly cared about. For most people such a thing would have been so crowded that its usefulness would be quite lost, but as Snape had -- until recently, at least -- only counted Albus Dumbledore as his true friend, it had been handy for checking in on the Headmaster and making sure he was safe.

Now, however, as Snape positioned himself in front of the mirror, he saw something quite unexpected. He saw Celeste.

She stood in an unfamiliar flat, speaking with the same fair-haired, round-faced girl Snape had seen before in Celeste's memories. Unfortunately the mirror transmitted only images, not sound, so he had no idea what they were saying to one another. But she seemed to look well enough, and Snape found himself obscurely comforted by the fact that she was over at a friend's house and not home alone. Perhaps she had gone over there for some advice. He didn't pretend to understand the feminine psyche, but he had observed that women seemed to prefer company over isolation; certainly the female students in Hogwarts tended to travel in packs, going so far as to visit the restrooms in small gangs as well. Very probably Celeste had been upset after the Occlumency lesson and had gone to her friend's home to avoid being by herself. At any rate, she seemed safe enough, and he felt he could return to Hogwarts unburdened by worry over her at least for the evening.

He knew what her sudden appearance in the mirror probably meant. It would have been easy to lie to himself, to brush off the importance of her image in a glass that showed only those closest to his heart. But he didn't. He knew how he felt. What he didn't know was what the hell he intended to do about it.

Snape didn't bother to tell Wormtail where he was going, of course. He merely gathered up into a small satchel the few items he needed to take to Hogwarts with him -- mirror included -- and Apparated out of the room. It would be good to rest in his own bed; he had a feeling that sleep would be long in coming, what with the Unbreakable Vow he had made with Narcissa and its possible consequences weighing on his mind, not to mention this latest development with Celeste Jenkins. He would just have to trust that the long walk up to Hogwarts through the cool night air would be enough to tire him, to give him the oblivion he so desperately craved.

* * *

Snape slept, but not as long as he would have liked. He'd stayed up well past midnight talking over the events of the evening before with the Headmaster, and in the bleak gray hour before dawn came an urgent summons to the Order of the Phoenix headquarters at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. There being no time to spare, he'd Floo'd immediately from the fireplace in Dumbledore's office, only to emerge in the dingy confines of the erstwhile Black kitchen. 

Nymphadora Tonks was waiting for him, along with Williamson and Proudfoot, both of whom Snape vaguely recognized from the Auror Department at the Ministry of Magic, although he did not know them well. Tonks looked pale and mousy, her normally bright pink hair a dull brown. Snape wasn't sure whether that was an improvement or not.

"I trust there's a good reason for dragging me here at this hour?" he inquired in icy tones. He had never cared much for the Metamorphmagus.

"In need of some expert advice, Professor," said Williamson, flicking his long ponytail back over one shoulder. "Nasty bit of business, I'm afraid."

Snape lifted an eyebrow at Tonks, who said, "At first we thought it was a simple case of Draught of Living Death, but the known antidotes didn't work..."

"Wizard or Muggle?" he interrupted.

The three Aurors exchanged an unhappy glance. "Muggle," Proudfoot said, after an uncomfortable pause.

"How awkward," Snape said dryly. Bad enough when Voldemort and his followers victimized wizardkind; when Muggles were involved, all sorts of messy cover-ups inevitably were required.

"A family," Tonks went on. She ran a hand through her short tousled hair, causing it to stick up more than ever. Snape thought she looked far more like someone who had just rolled out of bed than he himself did. "Mother and father, two younger children. It looked as if the oldest daughter had slipped out for the night for a bit of clubbing, and then she sneaked back in and found them all in the living room -- well, people up and down the block heard her screaming."

"Of course the Obliviators cleaned up the mess as best they could," Proudfoot added. "The family's been moved to St. Mungo's. A Muggle hospital was out of the question, and as they're not exactly responsive it's not as if they're going to notice anything odd about the place -- "

Snape cut in, "Then let's go. I can't base an opinion on something I haven't seen."

Proudfoot and Williamson exchanged a single dark glance, and Snape realized with some bitterness that they, as Aurors, probably didn't much appreciate receiving orders from an ex-Death Eater. Well, that was their problem. As Professor of Potions at Hogwarts, he was more qualified than anyone else to consult in this case, and if his presence was distasteful to them, so be it. Although Snape didn't much care about the fate of a Muggle family he didn't even know, he had to admit that his academic curiosity had been piqued. Was this a new spell or potion, or one that had somehow been perverted by the Dark Lord or his followers?

Since they were all on official Ministry business, a sleek dark car whisked them away from the Grimmauld Place to St. Mungo's. Even though the beginnings of the early morning rush had thickened street traffic, the car maneuvered its way through the clots of other vehicles and pedestrians with aplomb. No doubt the Muggle passersby would have been shocked indeed if they'd managed to get a glimpse through the car's darkened windows, only to see there was no one driving it.

The afflicted family had been secreted away in two adjoining rooms on the fourth floor, where the victims of spell damage were usually treated.

"We weren't quite sure where to put them," said the plump Healer who led Snape and the three Aurors down the hallway. She sounded a little apologetic. "The symptoms did appear to be those associated with Draught of the Living Death, but when none of the usual remedies seemed to work -- " Blinking watery blue eyes, she continued, "Anyhow, we thought it best to put them in this ward, where the worst cases are normally treated."

Worst cases, indeed. When he advanced into the room that housed the Muggle adults, Snape saw immediately that they were in a very bad way. Only by watching very closely could one tell that they even breathed, and even then he couldn't be sure until the Healer held a mirror above the mouth of the woman, to show the faintest film of condensation from her expelled breath.

The usual antidote to the Draught of the Living Death was in Invigoration Potion, but Snape didn't bother to ask whether that had been tried, since Tonks and the Healer had already informed him that the standard remedies had been of little use. A faint purplish stain on the woman's lips showed that she had indeed drunk the Draught -- or something like it. Her features were regular and might have been attractive when she was awake, but now her slackened visage reminded Snape of a waxwork figure that had begun to melt.

Frowning, Snape fished in his pocket for a piece of Reactive Parchment; the enchanted bit of paper could pick up even the slightest trace of potions and reveal the ingredients. It was an invention of his own, and therefore he knew that the Healers at St. Mungo's couldn't possibly have used it.

He laid the scrap of parchment against the woman's lips and watched as its normal yellowish-beige turned a pale lilac in color. At the same time, faint lines of text in a deeper purple shade began to appear on its surface.

"What on earth is that?" Tonks asked, a bit of color returning to her cheeks as she watched in apparent astonishment.

"Something I've been working on," Snape replied, offering her no more. "A means to determine the ingredients used in a particular potion."

The Healer's eyes widened at this exchange, and she bent over the victim's face, squinting to read the tiny words inscribed on the bit of parchment that covered her mouth. "Asphodel, wormwood..."

"Let me see that." With an abrupt movement he seized the tiny scrap, frowning as he perused the list of ingredients. Yes, of course, and sopophorous beans and valerian root, all the common elements which made up the Draught, but then...

"Nightshade, and monkshood...powdered bloodstone and bat wing..."

The Healer sucked in her breath in an audible gasp, and the three Aurors shot puzzled looks at her and then Snape.

"Bit fuzzy on my Potions, old man," Proudfoot said. "Care to enlighten us?"

Snape felt a sneer curl his lip. How Proudfoot could have possibly gotten an "Exceeds Expectations" on his Potions N.E.W.T. was beyond him, although since the Auror had graduated during Slughorn's tenure as Potions professor, very likely Proudfoot had simply bribed his way through with some fancy sweets.

"These additional ingredients serve the purpose of both intensifying the strength of the potion and extending its duration," Snape replied, speaking slowly, as if to a very stupid first-year. "On their own, they are toxic enough. In combination with the other elements of the potion..." He let the words trail off, and gave an eloquent lift of his shoulders beneath the heavy black robes.

"But can't you do something?" Tonks asked. Her face looked paler than ever; Snape wondered briefly if she were about to faint. "We can't just leave them like this..."

Again Snape shrugged. "I can try. But I make no promises."

"Our stillroom here is very well-stocked, Professor," the Healer said. "And any ingredients we lack we can get for you from Slug & Jiggers."

Snape knew he had to make the attempt. Even though he cared very little whether a family of unknown Muggles met their end at the hands of Voldemort and his followers, he wanted to prove that he was better than they, smarter, more adaptable. Perhaps in his own twisted way the Dark Lord had attacked these Muggles in this fashion merely to see whether Severus Snape was up to the challenge.

Besides, Celeste would have wanted him to try and save them...

Crossing his arms, he stared back at the three Aurors and the anxious-faced Healer. "Show me this stillroom," he said.

* * *

The day had worn itself away to another dank, dreary sunset before Snape finally allowed an ashen-faced Tonks to lead him away from the fourth floor of St. Mungo's. The other two Aurors had disappeared hours ago, presumably to pursue other important Ministry business. It was only after he had watched the still forms of the Muggles in their beds for a good quarter-hour, reassuring himself of the steady rise and fall of their chests beneath the starched white sheets, the color finally returning to their cheeks, that he followed the young Auror down to the street. Outside the shabby department store which served as a cover for St. Mungo's true nature, a long black Ministry car was waiting to take them back to Grimmauld Place. 

"That was amazing," Tonks said, crossing her arms, as if her battered leather jacket weren't quite enough to keep her warm.

"Merely the judicious application of the correct ingredients," Snape replied, taking care to sound indifferent. Inwardly, though, he felt a stab of triumph. Who else would have thought to combine periwinkle and the slightest dash of powdered unicorn horn to the usual antidote? Or that the tiniest trace of cowslip would be the activator required to energize the other elements of the potion?

No one, probably, which of course was why Tonks and the other two Aurors had brought him here in the first place. But now his patients seemed to be sleeping normally, although they had not yet regained consciousness. The Healer had said they would keep them overnight for observation, and then in the morning return them to their homes, memories carefully modified so that they would have no recollection of having spent the night in a most un-Muggle-like hospital.

Tonks wouldn't meet his eyes. Not that he cared -- very few people he encountered, with the notable exception of Celeste Jenkins, seemed able to look at him directly. "Still," she said quietly, "it was a good piece of work."

And after that she was silent for the rest of the car trip, as Snape stared out of the window and tried not to think about all the hours he had just lost in St. Mungo's. No Time-Turner for him, unfortunately -- he would have to return to Hogwarts and hope that nothing earth-shattering had occurred during his absence.

He muttered an absent farewell to Tonks and Floo'd immediately back to Hogwarts. Dumbledore sat behind the enormous desk in his office, watching as Snape emerged from the fireplace, brushing ash from the hem of his robes.

An unspoken question hung in the air.

"They're fine," Snape said. "No lasting harm done, and though it was a nasty bit of work St. Mungo's has the antidote now, should any new cases crop up."

"Good work, Severus." The Headmaster shot an all-knowing blue gaze in his direction. "Make sure you eat something."

"I'll have the house-elves send a tray to my room." Until Dumbledore had mentioned food, Snape hadn't even realized he was hungry. But he didn't want to make forced pleasantries in the dining hall with those few of the staff who remained at the school for the summer holidays. Better to eat quietly in his rooms, and take an early bed...after looking his mirror to make sure that Celeste was still all right.

Dumbledore nodded. "Rest well, then."

Without bothering to reply, Snape swept out of the Headmaster's office and down the stairs to the dungeons. He told himself that it was merely hunger and exhaustion that made the journey seem twice as long as usual. When he regained his quarters he forced himself to first summon a house-elf to take his dinner order before he turned to the Friend Glass, which he had hung in its regular spot behind his desk.

The first image that met his eyes was of Dumbledore, who still sat in his office, this time scratching away at a piece of parchment on the desktop. Snape frowned. Had his vision of Celeste the night before been merely a fluke, a chance apparition that would not be repeated?

But at that moment Dumbledore's reflection disappeared, and Snape saw himself looking at Celeste. She stood somewhere outdoors; he could see the wind pulling at her loose hair, and the last faint reddish glow of sunset limning the outline of her cheek. Then behind her Snape glimpsed a vast expanse of inky blue water, with a blood-colored disk slipping down below the horizon.

What the hell? While Manchester had several rivers in its environs, none of them were large enough to be the body of water that framed Celeste's slender form. He glared at the image, as if by concentrating hard enough he could force it to reframe its perspective and show him more of her surroundings. But the image didn't change -- he watched as she reached up with one hand, as if to wipe a tear from one cheek. Then she turned, staring off into the last of the sunset, before at last she turned and began to walk.

Her surroundings were completely unfamiliar -- a sweep of bay, a town that followed the curve of the harbor. With the falling of night, it was difficult for him to pick out any details. Fists curled in frustration, he watched as she made her way through the streets, climbing slightly as she moved away from the water. She paused on the curb as a bus chugged past her. Perhaps if he could only see the lettering on the vehicle --

"Sir?"

"What?" Snape spun away from the mirror, only to see a house-elf cowering before him, a tray of food gripped in its spindly fingers.

"Withy has the food you ordered, sir," it squeaked, staring up at him out of enormous frightened eyes and looking as if it very much wanted to let go of the tray and bolt.

"Put it over there," he snarled, pointing at the desk. "And get out."

It dropped the tray on the desktop as ordered and fled. Not bothering to watch its departure, Snape turned back to the mirror -- but it was too late. Celeste's image had disappeared, only to be replaced by the familiar sight of Dumbledore, who now seemed to be dozing as he sat behind his desk.

An inarticulate sound of frustrated anger made its way out of Snape's throat. He glared at the Friend Glass, but the image it showed never wavered. Feeling as if he'd put his fist through it if he had to stare at it one second longer, he turned and pulled out his desk chair, then sat, although eating the food the house-elf had brought suddenly seemed very unappealing.

Just where the hell was she? On the coast somewhere, and since Celeste had been watching the sunset over the ocean then she had to be somewhere on Britain's western coast. But that still meant she could be anywhere from Scotland to Cornwall. Even if he could discover somehow where she'd gone, that still didn't explain why. What on earth could have caused her to leave Manchester? She had certainly never mentioned going on holiday to him.

Snape forced himself to eat some of the food, but only because he knew that starving himself wouldn't do any good. Mind roiling, he went through the normal motions of preparing himself for bed, all the while picking at the problem, trying to decide what he should do next. Part of him wanted to get up and go ask Dumbledore's advice, but that, he worried, would lead to some awkward questions, not the least of which would be the query as to why Celeste Jenkins had suddenly appeared in Snape's Friend Glass. No, he would sleep on it, try to work it out in his own way. At least she had seemed to be safe enough where she was. Wherever that might be.

Sleep finally claimed him, and Snape welcomed it, falling into its blackness like a deep-sea diver seeking sunken treasure. Let the morning bring what it might...

* * *

But daylight brought no answers. Another look in the glass gave him nothing but Dumbledore once again. Muttering an Anglo-Saxon expletive favored by his late father, Snape exited his chambers, only to be brought to a halt by the smell of stale cooking sherry. 

Sybill Trelawney blinked up at him through her thick-lensed spectacles. "Ah, Professor," she said, reaching out with one bony hand to grasp him by the arm.

The Divinations professor was the last thing he needed this morning. "What?" he growled.

She blinked again, looking somewhat taken aback. "I know what it is that you seek!" she proclaimed, tightening her grip on his arm.

Snape wondered if she would hold his limb so firmly if she knew the Dark Mark lay coiled beneath the tight wool sleeve. "Indeed?"

"She has gone from your sight, but not from mine! As I lay meditating in my chamber last night, a vision came to me -- "

Normally Snape paid as little attention as possible to Trelawney's false soothsaying, but her words stopped him short. "A vision of what?"

"The lost one, the girl who was overlooked. The one you almost lost."

"Spit it out, woman!" Lost? What the devil was Trelawney talking about? If Snape thought shaking her would do any good, he would have gripped the Divinations professor by the arms and given her a good rattling. As it was, he set his teeth and waited.

"She is there, where the Ystwyth meets the sea -- "

He stared down into Trelawney's myopic eyes. "Are you saying she's in Wales?"

She sniffed, and removed her hand from his arm. "Well, erm...yes."

Not bothering with a reply, Snape retreated into his quarters, slamming the door on Trelawney's indignant, "Well, really!"

He had already forgotten her. As luck would have it, his Muggle clothing had been returned to his wardrobe, neatly cleaned and pressed. As annoying as they could be, house-elves did come in useful sometimes.

More quickly than he would have thought possible, Snape changed out of his robes and into the plain clothing of the modern world. He would have to leave Hogwarts' grounds before he could Apparate, but that was a delay of only a few minutes. Then he would go to Aberystwyth -- which of course was the place Trelawney had meant -- and ask Celeste what the hell she was thinking, up and disappearing like that.

Of course he'd never been to the small Welsh town, but he'd gotten enough of a glimpse of it in the mirror the night before for him to Apparate there safely. Once he was in Aberystwyth he'd still have to track her down, but he hoped that wouldn't be too difficult. Since he'd seen her there the night before, he'd start at the shore.

Hoping the little seaside town wouldn't be too busy at eight o'clock on a Saturday morning, Snape Apparated almost the second he stepped outside the gates of Hogwarts. He came down with a jolt on a sidewalk that bordered a narrow cobbled street, almost knocking over a young couple in running togs who were walking a pair of corgis.

"Watch it, mate!" the young man warned, and his wife -- or girlfriend -- gave Snape an irritated look, but then they continued on their way as if nothing particularly untoward had happened.

Shaking his head a little at the obtuseness of Muggles, Snape followed the feel of the fresh morning breeze, heading west until he came to a curved shore bordered in white sand, where the early morning sun caught the fickle waves as they danced in the harbor. No dementor-induced gloom here; the place looked fresh-minted as a new coin.

And then, at the end of the oddly truncated pier, he saw her. As in his vision of her last night, Celeste's hair waved loose in the breeze. He watched while she put up an impatient hand to push it back. She turned.

Their eyes met. Before he realized what he was doing, he was moving quickly, striding toward her, just as she ran to him. Her cheeks glowed, although with the morning or the sight of him, he couldn't be certain.

But then she threw her arms around him, pressing her face against his chest even as she gasped, "I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life!"

There was no mistaking her earnest tone. Her body felt warm and alive, pressed up against his.

He knew he should have pushed her away. He had questions he wanted answered. He wanted to ask what the hell she was doing here, what the hell she was doing running off and frightening him like that.

Snape looked down into Celeste's face as she gazed up at him. For a second he felt he was drowning in those eyes. The world seemed to dip around him, as if the quay had been hit by a particularly large breaker. Then he clutched her to him, and slammed his mouth against hers.

She tasted of salt and sweet coffee. Her lips were warmer than he could have imagined, soft and strong at the same time. He felt her arms tighten around him, pressing him close, pushing the heat of her breasts against his body. Was that the sound of the surf, or did that roaring come from within his own head?

After several lifetimes he lifted his mouth from hers. She looked up at him, face alight, and then she smiled, and curled her fingers around his.

"Let's have a talk, then," she said.


	14. Chapter 14

Well, despite the frustration of having our internet completely crap out at work, I was still able to send an e-mail to myself and upload this from home. Phooey on technology. ;-) Thanks for the reviews, everyone...I'm trying to get this finished by the end of this month so I won't have quite so many things on my plate when I start NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) in November. (That one will be another HP fanfic, because I didn't have time to do the research for the original historical/paranormal I was also considering. Hey, there's always next year!)

* * *

Fourteen

Feeling more than a little surreal, Snape sat across a table from Celeste in the Cabin Coffee Bar and watched as she blew on the hot liquid in the mug she held. He still found it somewhat unbelievable that those same lips had been pressed against his only a few moments earlier.

Even at this hour on a Saturday morning, the café buzzed with activity. Most likely the Muggles around them were getting an early breakfast in preparation for a day of sightseeing or fishing or whatever it was that Muggles did while on holiday. Since he'd never taken a vacation in his life, Snape couldn't speculate much further.

"Why here?" he demanded, after making sure the waitress was out of earshot and the people around them engaged in their own conversations. "Of all the stunts -- "

"I couldn't stay in Manchester," Celeste replied. She met his gaze frankly, but then her glance flickered to his mouth, and he saw the color burn high up on her cheekbones. After sipping at her coffee, she went on, "Not with those...things...roaming about."

Every muscle in his body seemed to tighten. "What things?"

"I don't know what they were." Her fingers tightened on the heavy white mug, and Snape thought he saw her shiver. "Hooded, dark...cold."

"Dementors," he hissed. And here he'd thought Manchester was so safe... "In the city?"

"Not exactly. A few miles outside, off the Mersey. I needed to get out of town for a bit, take a walk in the fresh air." From somewhere she summoned a smile, although it looked wavery around the edges. "That Occlumency lesson put me off a little. I wanted to clear my head."

While Snape thought he could understand her motivations, still the idea that dementors might be roaming the borders of Manchester made a series of alarms go off on his head. Had Voldemort known all along where Celeste was, and had only been purposely vague in order to see how Snape would react when the girl's existence was mentioned? Or had the dementors been there all along, only to be attracted when the presence of such a strong magical mind came near? It was rumored that dementors preferred to prey on wizard kind...something about the magically gifted soul being so much sweeter to devour...

He forced himself to concentrate on the questions at hand. "And you fought them off yourself? How?"

Her shoulders lifted. Although the day was clear here on the Welsh coast, still the air held a slight chill; Celeste wore a fuzzy brown cardigan over a white undershirt. "I'm not sure, really. I had all these horrible images and memories going through my mind, and I suddenly felt very low." She managed a small, wry laugh. "Well, that's a bit of an understatement. I felt almost suicidal, if you want to know the truth. Then -- you're going to think this is silly -- "

"I doubt it," Snape said, his voice grim.

She gave him a brief, startled look, then shrugged again. "Right. Anyhow, I heard your voice in my head, telling me to fight it, telling me to make my mind a blank just as you'd shown me, and that's what I did. It seemed to break off their pull on me long enough for me to run to the car and get the hell out of there. Then I got back to Manchester, but it didn't feel safe. So I decided to leave. If you'd given me any way of contacting you -- "

"That was impossible, for reasons I will make clear when I can," he interrupted, giving a significant glance at the crowded tables around them.

At least she was quick on the uptake; Celeste nodded, then said, "I know it's a bit crowded, but Mrs. Evans recommended it when I went out this morning."

"And who, pray, is Mrs. Evans?"

"She owns the guest house where I'm staying. She told me this place had some of the best coffee in town, along with amazing griddle cakes. Speaking of which, I'm starving. I need solid food to go along with this coffee. What about you?"

What he really could use, Snape thought, was a healthy dollop of brandy in the quite excellent coffee. But he guessed that was out of the question. Still, it amazed him that Celeste could sit there and talk about coffee and griddle cakes as if nothing had happened, as if dementors hadn't chased her out of Manchester, as if --

As if she hadn't just given him a kiss he would remember on his deathbed.

But if she wanted to play it cool, then so would he. Snape lifted an eyebrow, then drawled, "If there's bacon involved, breakfast sounds like a worthy idea."

She smiled then, and waved the waitress over. Some time was consumed in placing orders and choosing between crumpets and toast, although his interest in kippers was immediately shot down.

"Nasty little things," Celeste said. "I hate them."

The waitress gave her a conspiratorial wink and replied, "So do I," in her lilting Welsh accent, then disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

"Why Wales?" Snape asked at last, not wanting to get any more sidetracked than he already had.

"Why not?" Celeste replied immediately. Then she shook her head and gave him a rueful smile. "To be perfectly honest, I couldn't tell you why exactly. I didn't want anyplace completely desolate, but I wanted out of the big city. And I'd never been. So here we are."

"Indeed."

She leaned forward then, the familiar impish light in her eyes. "How did you find me, anyway?"

"Magic," he answered, allowing himself just the faintest curl of the lip.

The dimple next to her mouth flickered into existence for just a moment. "I should have known."

"Not mine, actually," Snape commented. "It was actually the Divinations professor who gave me the clue I needed to track you down."

"Divinations? How appropriate."

"Don't fool yourself. I think that may have been only the third time in her existence that Sybill Trelawney actually stumbled onto a true Seeing. Most of the time she mucks about with tea leaves and insists that everyone in the immediate vicinity is due to meet with a gruesome end."

Celeste burst out laughing. "Well, then, I'm glad all she did was see where I ended up, and not something worse."

Indeed. He was glad as well; so many possible futures promised nothing but pain and death. At least Sybill Trelawney had divined none of those.

Perhaps Celeste had seen some of those less than pleasant thoughts in his face. Whatever the reason, she sobered abruptly, then asked, "And have you come here to scold me, to tell me I've done something foolish and that I should go directly back to Manchester?"

"Nothing of the sort. In fact, I am somewhat relieved by your current place of residence. There have been no attacks in Wales as far as I know."

Some of the color left her cheeks. "What were those things?" she asked, in a low voice.

Snape shook his head. "I would rather not speak of them here," he said, his tone faintly reproving. "Time enough for that later."

"I hope so," Celeste replied. "That is -- I'm sure I won't particularly like what you have to say about them, but I'd hoped this time you might stay for more than an hour or so. You're always rushing off somewhere." And once again she flushed, then stared down into her coffee mug as if it were the most fascinating thing in the universe.

The novel idea that a woman would actually want to spend additional time with him was immediately crushed by the realization that he couldn't allow Celeste to get any closer than she already had. So they had shared a kiss. So she thought she loved him -- or at least cared for him deeply. Once she knew the truth she would no doubt feel very differently about the matter.

"My time is not always my own," he said, not troubling to moderate the harshness of his voice. Celeste flinched, and Snape told himself that he was glad.

At that inopportune moment the food arrived, and the uneasy silence between them continued as he and Celeste bent over their laden plates. Although his appetite had quite fled, Snape forced himself to eat.

Celeste stabbed her fork into a stack of griddle cakes and ate with what looked like a healthy appetite, but she practically radiated tension. "I don't understand you," she said at last, the words spoken so quietly Snape almost missed them in the cheery clatter of the café. "Why did you kiss me like that, if you didn't want to? Why come here at all, if I'm such a burden to you?"

"The matter is not that simple -- "

"It never is, is it?" she burst out. "It's always, 'Oh, I respect you as a person, but I don't see you that way,' or 'It's complicated -- you couldn't possibly understand.'" She put down her fork and fixed him with a direct, unwavering stare. "Try me."

"Not here," Snape said. "You asked for the truth, and I shall give it to you. But don't complain when you find it not much to your liking."

She didn't reply, but merely watched him for a few seconds. Then she gave a slow nod and returned to her food, as if she wanted to get the meal out of the way so that they could go on to more important business.

Snape followed suit, if at a somewhat more reasonable pace. It had to be done. He knew he could trust Celeste to keep his secrets, but he wasn't about to let her continue to see him as something he wasn't. After she knew the truth, she would of course never want to see him again. And that would be better, wouldn't it? He couldn't allow someone to be close to him, no matter how much he might take pleasure in her company, or look forward to the time they spent together. It shocked him to realize how much he had come to enjoy being with her...of how empty he felt when she was gone.

That couldn't continue, of course. His penance was to go through this life alone, to never allow another person within the prison cell he carried with him at all times.

Celeste's face had the sort of blank tightness he'd come to recognize as a desperate attempt at keeping her emotions at bay. Somehow she knew something bad was coming, but she managed to smile at the waitress and ask for the bill without any betraying tremor in her voice. Then she asked Snape quite naturally if he needed her to pick up the tab -- which he did, as he'd quite forgotten to bring any Muggle cash with him. Even as he cursed himself mentally for being so forgetful, she dropped the money on the table and said, "Let's go."

The day had, if possible, become even more beautiful. A few clouds had drifted in from the southwest, but otherwise both the sky and the water reflected a deep, serene blue, as if Voldemort and the dementors and everything else Snape had left behind in England were only a bad dream. The air was fresh and smelled of salt and open water. He found himself wishing that he could stay with Celeste here forever, hidden from the world and its responsibilities. It would take so little, so very little to convince her that it would be better to seek refuge in this corner of Wales and let the war go on without them...

He shook his head at himself. What a weak fool he was. _All it takes is one pretty girl to look kindly on you, and you're willing to throw away everything you've worked for all these years?_ he thought, but the words didn't have the bite they once might have had. Suddenly he felt very, very tired.

In silence, Celeste headed north along Marine Terrace, and Snape fell into place beside her. About six blocks up, she turned down a side street, where a large Edwardian-vintage house occupied the northeast corner. Immediately behind the home was a smallish lot that held a few automobiles; Celeste approached one of these, a bright blue thing that looked barely large enough to accommodate the both of them, and unlocked the passenger door.

Snape hesitated, looking inside. It was one thing to be carried about London in one of the Ministry's infallible sedans and quite another to be driven through the Welsh countryside in a flimsy metal box piloted by a woman who appeared to have a shaky hold on her emotions at best.

Pausing in the act of opening her own door, Celeste shot him an irritated glare. "What's the matter?"

"I fail to see why we need to take a car trip -- "

"You keep pointing out that you need privacy to discuss these important matters. So I'm getting us out of this teeming metropolis and offering you the quiet you so obviously require to talk to me." She got in the car and slammed the door, then started the engine.

Since there seemed to be no point in arguing, Snape bent over and somehow folded himself into the passenger seat. He fumbled with the seatbelt even as Celeste backed the car out of its space and pointed it north. After a few minutes they were out of the town proper and speeding along a highway that identified itself as the B4340.

"Where precisely are we going?" he asked at length, once he had reassured himself that she wasn't going to land them in a ditch. For some reason he'd assumed that she didn't know how to drive.

"A nice woods not too far from town," Celeste replied, her eyes never leaving the road. "Mrs. Evans gave me some brochures to look through when I got in yesterday, and I thought it sounded like a lovely place. I won't try to pronounce it, though -- my attempts at Welsh place names have already gotten me a few cross-eyed looks."

At another time Snape might have found himself amused by that statement. Now, however, he could only nod and stare out the window, watching as the trees crowded ever closer to the highway. At a signpost marked "Llanilar" Celeste turned right, then followed a narrow lane that traversed a bridge. After making a left, she pulled the car into a small dirt-paved parking lot whose only other occupants were a dusty sedan of indeterminate make and a gleaming piece of German machinery that looked very out of place in that wild setting.

The unknown Mrs. Evans had been correct -- the woods, whatever they might be called, were a lovely place. Perhaps other visitors traversed the paths that threaded between the stands of beech and fir, but Snape saw no living things beyond a few kites overhead, and a shadowy form slinking behind a fallen log. It might have been a badger, or perhaps a fox.

After a time they emerged into an open area with a small hill crowned by what looked like the remains of an ancient fort. Celeste made her way to a bit of wall that still stood and propped herself up against it, then crossed her arms and said, "I don't think anyone will listen here...unless you're worried about that badger I noticed a while back."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Hardly."

She stared back at him, still with that expectant gaze, and Snape found himself wondering what the devil he should say next. Somehow his resolution to tell her the truth and be done with it seemed absurd in this place of ancient beauty.

But they were here now, and he knew Celeste must be told.

"I've spoken to you of Voldemort," he said, the words feeling like a weight in his mouth, something stinking and rotten, dragged to the surface after moldering in the dark for uncounted years. "Of how the wizarding world is at war, of the evils he and those who follow him have committed. What I neglected to tell you is that once I was counted among those followers."

Silence followed that statement, a quiet broken only by the chattering of a pair of rooks which rose from among the ruins and dashed away to the south. Celeste watched him for a long moment, her steady gaze never leaving his face. Finally she said, "Once. But not anymore?"

"Not for more than sixteen years." Had it really been that long? The years had begun to run together, years of sacrifice...and solitude.

She frowned, as if digesting that bit of information. "But it's been so long...and if you're teaching at the school, then obviously people realize you're not working for Voldemort any longer. What difference does it make, what you might have done when you were barely out of school?"

He wanted to laugh at the naïveté of that statement. "Believe me, people have been sentenced to lifetime imprisonment in Azkaban for less than what I have done."

"What's Azkaban?"

"The wizard prison." Her expression didn't alter, and Snape added, "Those things that chased you outside Manchester? They're called dementors, and they used to guard the prison. Very few have ever escaped from Azkaban, I assure you."

With some satisfaction he noted that she looked considerably more pale. "But if they're the guards, what are they doing wandering around the countryside?"

"What indeed? The Ministry of Magic has lost its hold on the dementors, and they've gone over to Voldemort's side. It's entirely possible he had them out looking for you."

"For -- for me?" Celeste clutched her arms around herself, as if the cool but pleasant day had suddenly turned freezing. "I thought you said that Voldemort didn't know where I lived."

"That is indeed what he told me, but the Dark Lord has been known to obfuscate when it pleases him," Snape replied, then stopped. _Damn_...

"He _told_ you?" Celeste demanded. "I thought you said you hadn't been a follower of his for more than sixteen years! _When_ did he tell you that?"

"Not quite a week ago."

Again she was silent, staring at him in consternation. Finally she said, "If you don't tell me what the bloody hell is going on, I'm going to scream."

"No need for that," Snape said. He marveled that he could sound so cool, when in fact he thought he knew exactly how Celeste felt. "The Dark Lord believes me to be a loyal follower of his still. In fact, my allegiance is to Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, and the greatest wizard in the world. But of course Voldemort does not know this, and I've worked very hard to make sure he never will."

"Occlumency," Celeste commented. "Of course. How could you hope to succeed as a double agent if you couldn't shield your thoughts?"

"Precisely." Once again Snape found himself impressed with the quickness of her mind. That thought took him back to a time when he had very seriously told his mother that he wanted a smart girl, as if even at ten he had known he didn't have very much to tempt the pretty ones. No doubt his ten-year-old self would have been astonished to learn that he had somehow managed to find a woman who was intelligent and beautiful, and who appeared to want him as much as he wanted her. Since she was so well-suited to him in so many ways, of course he could never actually have her.

Celeste looked down, appearing to concentrate on pushing at a pebble with the toe of her left shoe. "So possibly the dementors had been sent to find me, or perhaps they just got lucky." Although a fall of red-brown hair obscured most of her face, Snape thought he saw the quick glint of her eye as she looked sideways at him. "Since I'm safe now, I'll worry about that later. What I want to know is what you possibly could have done that would make you think you hadn't redeemed yourself after so many years of service. I think you owe me that much."

So she wanted to know, did she? Well, so be it. That was what he had resolved, hadn't he? To show her the worst, and allow the revulsion that must surely follow to drive her away?

"Take my hand," he said, the words harsh, rasping against his throat. "I won't block your mind. Take my hand, and see for yourself."

She stared at him for a second, then nodded. "Legilimency?" she asked.

"Your natural gift," he said. "Go on."

And Celeste reached out and took his hand.

The memories he had spent so many years blocking, the dark events that had scarred his soul all this time, spilled out in a flood. He held nothing back -- not the hatred and bitterness he felt toward the wizard world and the detested James Potter and his friends in particular, not the sense that he had been cheated of something greater, not even the resentment he felt toward his mother for being foolish enough to marry a Muggle and so doom her only son to what he saw as a marginal, half-blood existence. The black bile that consumed him after he left Hogwarts led him to Voldemort's service, to people who promised him some of the power he thought he deserved. And in that service he had stood by and watched both wizard and Muggle tortured, had cast the Cruciatus curse himself more than once, had even looked on and pretended to laugh as the Dark Lord cast the Avada Kedavra on some poor young wizard who had had the bad luck to stumble on Voldemort's headquarters. Afterward, when Snape had crept away to his own humble flat in London, he had stumbled into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet over and over again, until he felt as if he were about to bring up his own innards.

But the worst...oh, the worst...

He didn't know where Lucius found the girl. She was a Muggle, dazed and empty-eyed after Malfoy had hit her with the Imperius curse. They'd all been drinking, and had gone out hunting the back streets of London for easy prey.

"She's not very pretty," Lucius had said, laughing. "But then again, neither are you, Severus!"

And Snape had taken her, half out of his mind with whiskey and lust, while Malfoy and Goyle looked on and cheered. He hadn't stayed around to see what happened to the girl after that. He'd run then, wanting to hide away like the animal he thought he was. And he had never touched a woman since...

Celeste dropped his hand, and the dark tide of memory slipped away.

He looked at her then, waiting to see the horror and loathing take over, to see every ounce of regard she might have once had for him irrevocably destroyed.

Tears glistened in her eyes. All the color had fled her cheeks. But she didn't glance away. "You were so young," she said at last.

"Old enough to know what I was doing," he snarled. "Youth and stupidity can't excuse my crimes."

"Not an excuse, perhaps," Celeste returned. Those green eyes met his, eyes unclouded by hatred or disgust. "But an explanation."

"Don't you dare try to make light of what I did," Snape said. "You weren't there. You can't know -- "

"But I can." Her brows pulled together as she frowned, then continued, the words tumbling out of her in a rush, "You let me into your mind, Severus. So of course I saw what you did, but I also felt what you felt, the anger, the self-loathing, the complete rejection of what you had done in Voldemort's name. I can't excuse what you did -- it was despicable -- but you make it sound as if there's no chance for you to redeem yourself! What have you done these past sixteen years if not penance for crimes committed when you were barely twenty?"

He muttered, "Not enough -- "

"Will it ever be?"

At those words he stopped and stared back at her.

"How many lives have you saved because of this double life you lead? How much information have you passed along to this Dumbledore in order to stop Voldemort?" Celeste paused, and Snape saw her hand shake as she reached up to push a lock of hair behind her ear. "More than the people you hurt, all those years ago?"

The question took him aback. She made it sound as if there were some sort of cosmic balance sheet that could erase what he had done. He began to say so, and she put up a hand.

"That's not what I meant, Severus." Her tone was far gentler than he deserved. "I'm not talking about some Old Testament God and an eye for an eye, a life saved for a life taken. I'm talking about redemption. My parents weren't the overly religious sort, and we didn't go to church very often, but I picked up enough to know that we must believe in some sort of forgiveness for our wrongdoings. Obviously your Headmaster forgave you and saw some hope for you, or he certainly wouldn't have taken you into his confidence, placed you in a position that required such trust." She hesitated, then said, the faintest tremor finally entering her voice, "I could tell you that I forgive you, Severus. But I get the feeling that won't mean very much if you can't find the strength to forgive yourself."

She could have no idea what she was offering him. Celeste had walked through his thoughts, touched the blackness there, and instead of turning from him in disgust offered him understanding and hope. Snape knew he could never comprehend the innate decency of people such as Celeste Jenkins and Albus Dumbledore. They could somehow look past the pettiness and the selfishness and the sense that the world had treated him ill, and still see something in him worth saving.

Words had always been his weapon and his defense, but they failed him now. He could only stare back at her, this girl who had been a question and a mystery, and had somehow become the only real thing in his world. She met his gaze, tears glimmering in eyes that reflected the deep, watchful green of the woods around them. Then she took a step toward him, and another. Not knowing what else to do, he waited, until by some miracle her arms went around him, her warmth pressed against him, the softness of her hair tumbling over his hands as he held her close.

And for now, it was enough.


	15. Chapter 15

Another long one, but sometimes it's just impossible to break these things up! Thanks for the reviews, everyone -- I'm really trying hard to get this done by the end of the month.

* * *

Fifteen

_From the diary of Celeste Jenkins:_

July 8, 1996

Everything has changed...and yet, oddly, I feel as if I've gone through my whole life just waiting for the moment when everything would become clear.

For one thing, I know now that the main reason my father never brought us to Wales on holiday is that he himself was Welsh, and the chance of his family's anonymity being destroyed too great. But I suppose I should try to get this down in some semblance of order, so more on that later.

My feelings for Severus haven't altered one bit, even though I'm sure many people would have been completely repulsed upon learning the less savory aspects of his past. But because I was able to walk in his thoughts, know the utter wretchedness and confusion that had driven him to serve Voldemort for that brief period, I know that any condemnation the world might give him would still be far less than what he has taken upon himself all these years.

I know he must have suffered some sort of sea change, for afterward he let me hold him for a long time. The Severus Snape the world knows probably would not have allowed such a thing. And oh, the feeling of his arms around me, the sound of his heart beating as I lay my head against his chest! I wanted nothing else than that, to let the world close down to the two of us and the feelings we shared for one another. Perhaps this unknown wizard, this Albus Dumbledore who had somehow found it within him to trust Severus even after all the dark things he had done, had tried to offer comfort in his own way. But I got the feeling none of that counted for much. For whatever reason, my loving Severus despite his past gave him the first hope he had known in a long, long time.

We clung to each other for an uncounted length of time, and then he kissed me again, very gently, the touch of his mouth on mine so different from the mad impassioned kiss he had given me on the quay, a kiss that felt as if it had somehow been torn from him. I wanted to tell him I loved him, but somehow the words seemed silly and trite, and I remained silent. Then again, I was doing nothing to shield my thoughts from him; very likely he already knew the depth of my feelings already.

Afterward we walked along the paths in the forest, still not speaking, just sharing the day and one another's company. I wasn't sure what I should say, and Severus seemed disinclined toward conversation, although not in a sullen sort of way. Rather, it seemed as if he just wanted to take the time to absorb what had happened, to fully understand that rather than driving me away, his revelations about his past had only made me want to be with him more. I suppose some people would think me a fool for feeling that way, but if I've learned anything during the time I've worked with people it's that they have an infinite capacity for change, if only they would allow themselves to embrace it. Severus had let himself be trapped in the dark corridors of the past, caught in a maze of his own making. I could only hope that I had begun to make him see that he had so much of value to offer the world, that -- rather than an act of weakness -- his forgiving himself would be a sign of great strength.

Some time went by, and then he asked, in quite a normal voice, whether I were hungry. Surprisingly, I found that I was, rather; fresh air always gives me an appetite, and it had been a few hours since breakfast. I said I was, and offered to drive us further up the coast in search of something appetizing for lunch. Instead of demurring, as I half-expected he would, Severus said that sounded like a good idea, and we were off.

Despite all the time we had spent together previously, the rest of that day felt like a first date, for lack of a better term. I pointed the little Corsa northward along the B4572 until we came to the seaside village of Borth, where we followed our noses to some delectable fish and chips that we washed down with several pints of ale. After that we walked along the shore for a time and watched the tourists with their collapsible beach chairs and ludicrous sun hats -- "Muggles," Severus said, in a half-amused, half-contemptuous tone, but I got the feeling much of his disdain had been tempered by my presence. Perhaps if I'd been raised in the wizarding world I would have felt the same, but I had been a Muggle, or at least brought up to think I was one, and I couldn't feel the same scorn toward those who just looked to be ordinary people enjoying a holiday. In some ways, they were the lucky ones, after all -- at least they had never heard of Voldemort.

Severus talked about Hogwarts, and Dumbledore, and asked me about my schooling. In some ways, I couldn't help but think that my own secondary education, lacking in Charms and Transfigurations as it might have been, was somewhat superior. At least I had had geography and algebra and physics, Latin and French, not to mention more composition classes than I cared to remember, but it seemed as if all those mundane subjects were abandoned in the wizarding world once children reached their eleventh year and were identified as having magical powers.

"How do they know?" I asked, pausing at the water's edge, my jeans rolled up and my shoes dangling from my hand. Severus of course had refused to participate in any such undignified behavior and stood a few paces back, the hems of his black trousers liberally dusted with fine white sand.

"It's always been that way," he replied, as if surprised that I would ask such a question. "On your eleventh birthday, the owl comes with the invitation to Hogwarts."

"As simple as that,"I commented. "And what happens if the prospective student was born to nonmagical parents? You hinted that that does occur occasionally."

"In such cases a representative from the school will often go to meet with the parents."

I glanced over my shoulder at him, and pushed back a wayward strand of hair that had gotten caught in the fresh, sea-driven breeze. "Not you, I would think."

"Of course not." His mouth thinned. "Albus once said that I was 'somewhat lacking in interpersonal skills.'"

"That's an understatement," I replied with a grin.

Severus frowned, the familiar deep line appearing between his black brows, and I laughed.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," I said. "I love you, and even I know that."

The air between us seemed to freeze, and I thought, _Oh, God, that's done it_...

But then he -- well, it wasn't exactly a smile, but the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, and the look he gave me was anything but cold. "Thank you for pointing that out," he said, his tone dry, and suddenly I knew everything was all right. Maybe he couldn't come right out and tell me he loved me, but at least he was willing to accept the fact that I loved him. The rest would come in time.

The drive back in to Aber didn't take more than an hour; at that point I was convinced that Severus would find some reason to disappear as he had done so often in the past, but he gave no indication that he intended to leave any time soon. So I parked the car behind the guest house, thanking God that the redoubtable Mrs. Evans supplied parking for her guests, as spots on the street were in short supply. We wandered down to the shore and walked along the Promenade all the way to the Castle grounds, where we spent more time exploring and enjoying the excellent view of the harbor from its commanding position on the promontory. And all the while I kept wondering what Severus' purpose in such idleness was, as all of our previous meetings had had such set objectives.

Then I realized, as I stood on the hill above Aberystwyth and he kissed me there again, once a gaggle of German tourists had retreated down the path toward the parking lot, that he was merely trying to steal these moments with me, to take this time and hold it close, since the chance might not ever come again. That moment of enlightenment brought home to me how difficult and dangerous his life was. It had been easy to forget, for a few enchanted hours here along the Welsh coast, that a very great evil shadowed his life...and mine.

But I refused to let those dark thoughts ruin the day. If we made an odd pair, the dour-looking man with the unrelieved black clothing and the slightly bohemian young woman with wind-tousled hair in need of a combing, I certainly didn't care. Let other people think of us what they might. At least here we were safely anonymous.

As the day slid toward dusk, we made our way back down to the pier, where we headed to the Brasserie and enjoyed a truly decadent meal. Of course I had to put it all on my credit card, but it was worth every penny. Severus looked concerned that once again I had to foot the bill, but I didn't mind. He deserved a treat, and I could afford it. Besides, I was relatively certain that Voldemort's minions lacked some of MI5's investigative capabilities and probably weren't up to tracking me down through my credit card use.

Afterward we watched the lights in the harbor, and then Severus finally walked me back to Bodalwyn House. I hesitated at the rear entrance. Part of me wanted -- oh, desperately wanted -- to invite him back inside with me. But I knew that would probably be rushing things a bit too much. Although the thought of Severus making love to me sent a shiver of delicious anticipation up my spine, I realized that I would have to be very, very careful. For a second the face of the unknown girl he had assaulted all those years ago flickered into my mind, and I forced it away. I couldn't help her now, and from what little Severus had told me of the Imperius Curse, very likely she would have had no recollection of what happened to her that night. That didn't make it right, of course, far from it. However, I couldn't help thinking that he'd lived in a self-imposed prison because of what he had done for far longer than anyone who might have been convicted of the actual crime probably would have served.

So I let him kiss me again, there on the back steps, a quick and hurried kiss. Then he reached out to brush his fingers against the side of my face and murmured, "I'll come back as soon as I can." And with that he melted off into the night, no doubt to find a safe alley or dark corner from which he could Disapparate unobserved.

For moments afterward I could still feel his touch against my cheek, the pressure of his lips on mine. I smiled, then let myself in, happy in the knowledge of a perfect day.

* * *

I had no way of knowing when Severus would return, of course, but Aberystwyth is not a large place, and I felt safe in wandering its environs, knowing that he could find me without too much difficulty whenever he did manage to get back. So the next morning, after fortifying myself with sausage and eggs at a little café down the street from the guest house, I wandered off to the Arts Centre, another place Mrs. Evans had suggested I would enjoy exploring.

Since I had time to kill, I walked there, just taking in the sights and sounds of the town. Although it was July, the University still had the summer term going on, and I saw a good number of students roaming the streets or clogging the outdoor tables at various eateries. Funny thing, though -- although of course they were a good bit closer to me in age than Severus, I didn't feel much of a connection to any of them. My university days, short-lived as they had been, were now far behind me.

Mrs. Evans had told me it wouldn't take much more than twenty minutes to make the walk, but she'd neglected to inform me that most of that journey would be uphill. By the time I got to the Arts Centre I felt fairly winded, and so I stopped in a little café on the grounds to have some tea and get my breath back. Besides, it felt good to just sit there for a while and watch the crowds go by.

But then I felt as if I'd recovered myself enough to do a bit of shopping, and I forged ahead into the gift shop, which offered some lovely local pottery and other arts and crafts that ranged from hand-loomed shawls and wraps to beautiful silver jewelry studded with garnets and other cabochon stones. I paused, looking down into a case that held a lovely assortment of brooches. I'd never much been one for jewelry, but it would be nice to have something that reminded me of Aber, and a brooch pinned to the lapel of a coat or blazer wouldn't get in the way as a ring or bracelet might.

Suddenly I got a prickly feeling along the back of my neck, as if someone were staring at me. I glanced up from the case to see a dark-haired woman who was probably in her late fifties looking straight at me, her face quite pale. Our eyes met, and she whispered, "Bettina?"

I froze. Bettina was my mother's name, of course, and I did resemble her a great deal, save for the minor differences in our coloring. Clearing my throat, I said, "Excuse me?"

The woman blinked. "No, of course, you couldn't be, but -- forgive me, but you look so much like someone I used to know. "Her accent was strong and lilting, clearly Welsh.

It couldn't be a coincidence. God, how I wished Severus were there. Perhaps he would have been able to tell me whether this strange woman was a Death Eater or simply someone out of my foggy past. But I was alone, and forced to rely on my instincts -- which normally were quite good. So I took a breath and said, "My name is Celeste."

If anything, she looked even more ashen after that statement. I could see her fingers tighten on the gaudy tapestry bag she held. "My dear," she began, then paused. Her dark eyes seemed to water suddenly. "I'm your Aunt Bronwen."

What? How? I opened my mouth, questions bubbling to my lips, and she held up a hand.

"Not here," she said, casting a quick glance around the crowded shop. "I live just down the hill -- let's grab a bus and have a chat, shall we?"

I wasn't sure what to do, but I knew one thing -- I wasn't about to let a chance to learn more about my family slip me by. So I nodded wordlessly and followed the strange woman out of the shop and out to the bus stop, where we took one of the numerous buses that trundled up and down the hill, back down into the town proper, where she apparently had a flat over a tea shop. It was a fussy, feminine apartment, with too many side tables and antimacassars for my taste, but it did seem to enhance her air of harmlessness. Once we were inside I asked, "Are you one of my mother's sisters?"

She'd slipped into the kitchen, apparently to set a kettle on the stove. "Some tea to settle my nerves," she explained, then came back out into the crowded living room. "No, I'm from your father's side of the family."

I must have given her a skeptical glance, for she certainly didn't resemble my redheaded father very much.

"Not by blood, dear," she replied. "I was married to your Uncle Rhys -- one of your father's older brothers."

"'Was' married?"

Again her dark eyes got that misty look. "Gone," she said. "In the war with You-Know-Who." To my surprise, she crossed herself. For some reason I had never thought of witches and wizards being particularly religious, but on one of the walls behind her, almost hidden by a plethora of decorative plates and pastels of idealized countrysides, was a portrait of Jesus.

Feeling more than a little overwhelmed, I sank onto a floral-upholstered couch and waited while she tended to the tea. After she had deposited a Royal Albert tea set on the tabletop and poured me a cup, she settled herself in a pink wing chair and sighed.

"You look so much like her,"this unknown aunt of mine said. "Your hair is redder, and your eyes closer to green -- hers were hazel as well, but with more brown. We were school friends, you know."

"I don't know very much," I said. "I'm only just now finding out something about my past."

"But you do know -- " And she paused delicately.

"That my parents were wizards?" I finished. "Yes, I've learned that much."

Nodding sadly, Bronwen commented, "I was never quite sure that keeping such a secret was a good idea. But Avery and Bettina insisted it was for the best, and since the rest of the family was in agreement, I had to go along with it."

"Even after -- " I swallowed. "Even after they died?"

Again she made the sign of the cross. "Even then. My dear, don't you know anything of how the Fidelius Charm works?"

"The what?"

"The Fidelius Charm." She sipped at her tea, then set the cup down on the marble-topped coffee table. "Your mother was the Secret-Keeper -- she always excelled at Charms. Anyhow, the entire family swore never to reveal the fact of your existence or your whereabouts, nor to approach you or your parents for fear of drawing attention. And even if the Secret-Keeper dies, the Charm lives on. We couldn't have come to you, even after we learned what happened to your parents."

"Well, that's useful, isn't it?" I snapped. "What would have happened if my parents had been smashed up on the M60 when I was only twelve, or even sixteen, instead of nineteen? Who would have taken care of me then?"

"Celeste, dear -- " She did look truly distressed, but I was also angry, far angrier than I would have thought I could be. Fine for her to sit here and worry and fret in her pink living room with her Old Country Roses tea set while I had been orphaned and thought myself completely alone in the world.

I broke in. "If Severus hadn't found me, I'd still be blundering around in an oblivious fog -- "

"Severus?" Bronwen repeated, shock clear on her round face. "Severus _Snape_?"

"Yes. He found me in Manchester, and -- "

"Oh, dear." The teacup rattled against its saucer as she picked it up and gulped the hot liquid inside. "Really, I'm sure it's because you know nothing of the wizarding world, but Severus Snape is not the sort of man you should be spending any sort of time with."

"Well, if being a member of the wizarding world means being a blind, prejudiced -- "With a conscious effort I bit off the rest of the words. One would think I'd gotten my temper from my redheaded father, but in actuality he'd been quite a mild man, and my mother the fiery half of the couple. Luckily for me, Bronwen didn't look angry, but just exceedingly worried. In a somewhat calmer tone I continued, "He's been very kind to me."

"Kind?" One eyebrow lifted, and she shook her head, as if she couldn't quite connect that word with Severus Snape. "My dear, he's a known _Death Eater_ -- "

"Former Death Eater,"I corrected her. "And you needn't worry about any of that, as he told me the truth about himself. Besides, Albus Dumbledore is the one who told him to teach me."

"Oh, well, Professor Dumbledore..." The words trailed off, and my Aunt Bronwen suddenly appeared wary. "Teach you what, precisely?"

"Magical defense, mainly,"I replied. "And something of Occlumency and Legilimency. Apparently I'm something of a natural Legilimens."

"That doesn't surprise me. What a child you were -- pulling prophecies out of thin air, knowing what people were going to say before they said it -- "

She spoke so casually of my childhood, of memories and times that had been lost to me forever. I made myself take a sip of the strong tea before asking the question that had been tearing at me all along. "_Why_?"

To her credit, she didn't pretend to misunderstand my meaning. For a few seconds she remained silent. One abstracted hand went up to smooth a nonexistent hair away from her face. Despite the fact that she had to be in her middle or late fifties, no gray showed in her hair, although whether that was due to magic or a deft hand with the dye bottle, I couldn't be sure. Then she sighed and said, "How much do we know of the 'why's of anything? Why were you born with these powers? Why is Harry Potter the boy in the prophecy, and not someone else? Why -- "

"Who is Harry Potter?"

Bronwen gaped at me, as if she couldn't believe I would ask such a question. "But of course you couldn't possibly know about any of that," she said immediately, excusing my ignorance. "That's a story for another time. Simply said, he's the only person to ever survive an attack by You-Know-Who, and apparently he is the only one who can defeat..._him_." She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, as if she expected to see Voldemort lurking in the corner behind the silk ficus tree.

"Does Voldemort know about that?" I asked, and saw her flinch at the name.

"Of course he does," she replied, after another one of those furtive looks behind her. "Why do you think he tried to kill the boy?"

With some impatience, I inquired, "But what does any of that have to do with me?"

"We still don't know for sure. But it was on your eleventh birthday that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named tried to kill the Potter boy, and somehow -- somehow you felt it."

"I _felt_ it?" Suddenly I had the sense that the world had turned to quicksand, that I was being pulled down into a place where there was no refuge, no solid place to hold on to.

"Yes -- we were having a family get-together at your parents' home. You'd had a party earlier in the day for your friends, but this was later in the evening. And then, just as you were about to blow out the candles on your cake, you gave a scream the likes of which I'd never heard before or since. You clapped your hand to your forehead, and we could all see it -- a scar appeared there, in the same place, as it turns out, that Harry Potter himself has a scar, which he got from surviving You-Know-Who's Killing Curse."

Apparently glad to have gotten that over with, my Aunt Bronwen allowed herself another large swallow of tea, looking rather regretful that it wasn't something a bit stronger. She gave me a sidelong glance, as if expecting me to say something, but I sat there, frozen, my mind working furiously. That first time I'd seen Severus, I'd woken up with a bloody awful headache that was centered, curiously enough, high up on my forehead. Could I have had some sort of horrible flashback to my eleventh birthday? And had Severus already begun to put the improbable pieces together? If he had, that would certainly explain why he'd felt the need to get out of the house and someplace where he could get himself a stiff drink.

All I was left with, however, was the same question. "Why?"

My aunt shook her head. "As to that...no one of us knew for sure. Oh, you'd been very gifted from an early age -- why, before you were even four you were telling people where they'd mislaid their glasses, who was going to drop in on your parents next, that sort of thing. At first everyone found it amusing and said they'd thought something like that might have happened -- the child of a seventh son and a seventh daughter." She gave me a quizzical look. "I suppose you didn't know you had quite such a large family, did you?"

"Severus told me," I said absently.

"Hmph." Although I got the feeling she wanted to expound further on Severus Snape's shortcomings, she limited herself to that one disapproving throat-clearing and then went on, "But then it was things like telling your Uncle Emrys not to take his broom to the Quidditch match -- and sure enough, the man had a midair collision on the way there that landed him right in St. Mungo's -- or you saying that your Aunt Marigold should move her potions supplies someplace else, and luckily she listened, for didn't the Axe flood that year and go straight into her cellars?"

Her face told me she expected a response, so I stammered, "Well, erm -- if you say so -- "

"At any rate, it was all mostly harmless, and certainly helpful to those who paid heed to your words, young as you were. But then the dreams started, when you were about ten years old. Nightmares of dark forms, and snakes, and glimpses of horrible things..." Bronwen shuddered. "The worst of it was, you'd have these dreams, and then we'd hear tell of the latest evildoings by You-Know-Who and his followers, and they were always what you'd dreamed. Drove your parents about mad with worry, as you might guess."

"But why didn't they tell anyone else?" I demanded. "It sounds as if this Albus Dumbledore is the one person everyone goes to for help -- why on earth wouldn't they ask his advice?"

My aunt fidgeted with her teacup. "Well, your mother had a bit of bad blood with the Headmaster, and proud as she was, she didn't want to have to ask for his help."

"'Bad blood'?" I repeated. "What on earth for?"

"A foolish prank, really, but Dumbledore was new to his post back then, and I suppose he had to make an example of her. Besides, Quidditch is a serious matter."

I suddenly felt that if Bronwen mentioned one more thing or person I'd never heard of before I'd scream. "What is Quidditch?" I ground out.

She got another one of those startled looks in her eyes, but managed to reply, "A game, played on broomsticks. Think of it as football in midair -- although it's much more complicated than that."

At first I wanted to laugh. Football? Was she serious? But then I recalled the general teeth-gnashing and hair-pulling that regularly went on at Topham's whenever Manchester United fudged a match and decided that here at least was something the wizard and Muggle worlds had in common. "So what did she do?"

"Cast an EverSteer Charm on her broom right before the big match with Hufflepuff, even though the brooms are supposed to be impervious to outside charms. She was Seeker for Gryffindor, and the best Charms student Professor Flitwick said he'd ever seen..."

I sighed, sorted through the questions I wanted to ask, came up with roughly five hundred, and shrugged. "I take it that's against the rules?"

"I should say! So Dumbledore found out somehow -- I suppose her hanging off one end upside down without appearing to steer the thing tipped him off -- and he banned her from Quidditch for the rest of her time at Hogwarts. Oh, that set her nose out of joint, I can tell you. Called the Headmaster an interfering old busybody and a few other choice phrases I shan't repeat here. But she was still angry over it years later."

Well, that was my mother all over again. Oh, I loved her -- she was the sort of person who somehow managed to charm everyone around her -- but she could hold a grudge like nobody's business. It didn't take much for me to believe she would avoid seeking Dumbledore's help, even for such a serious matter as her only daughter's dark and developing power of prophecy.

"All right,"I said after a moment. "I suppose I can see why my parents might not ask for help. But to take me away from everyone, to hide me -- well, what was the point? Severus made it sound as if everyone thought Voldemort had been defeated for a time."

She couldn't avoid wincing at the mention of the Dark Lord's name, but Bronwen said simply, "You parents knew he wasn't dead and gone, not completely. You kept having the nightmares...and so, fearing that somehow he would track you down as the connection grew stronger, they took you away. We all took part in the Fidelius Charm. And then your mother kept casting charms on you as you grew up, to keep your magical abilities at bay."

"And she was just going to keep doing that forever? Sounds a bit impractical, don't you think?" Anger sharpened the sarcasm in my voice, but Bronwen merely sighed, looking very weary all of a sudden.

"Of course she hoped -- we all hoped -- that You-Know-Who would be defeated, that his death would release you from this odd connection you have." She let out a breath, then asked hesitantly, "Do you -- that is, do you still -- "

"Do I still dream of Voldemort?" I asked, my tone harsh enough to have come straight from Severus' own mouth. Bronwen flinched again. "Sometimes. Of course I had no idea who or what I was dreaming about, not until Professor Snape told me. And many of my powers seemed to come back not long after the car accident."

"I would expect so," Bronwen said, "since your mother was no longer there to keep blocking your magic."

Not knowing what else to do, I drank from my teacup, even though by then the liquid inside was barely lukewarm.

"I know this must be very difficult for you, my dear," she said. "As for the final question -- why you? -- I don't know. Your parents didn't know. Your gift for Divination is very, very strong. Your father once told me he thought you might be connected with V -- with _him_ simply because the conflict with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was the thing that would define several generations of wizards, the one thing around which all our possible futures centered. So naturally it would draw your mind like iron filings to a lodestone."

"Then what should I do?" I asked, my voice hard, barely my own. "Do I keep running and hiding, all the while hoping that someone takes this bastard out before he catches up with me?"

"C -- catches up with you?"my aunt quavered.

"Why do you think I'm here? On holiday? I ran -- ran because two dementors almost got me, just outside of Manchester. Severus seems to think I'm safe here for now, but how much does that really mean?"

At the mention of dementors all the blood seemed to drain from Bronwen's round cheeks. Still she managed to say, "They've never been spotted in Wales -- at least not yet. We are somewhat out of the way here, thank God."

Her words did relieve me somewhat, but my thoughts kept jumbling all over one another, trying to reconcile what my aunt had just told me with the parents I thought I had known. Oh, it was one thing to be told by someone who hadn't known them that they had once been wizards. But to hear Aunt Bronwen talk about my mother hanging upside-down off broomsticks and my father discussing my gifts of foresight as if he were talking about my latest test scores was enough to make me feel quite wild. I longed for Severus. I wanted to discuss these latest revelations with him, to see if my aunt had let something drop that made no sense to me but might possibly be of vital importance.

"No one knows I'm here,"I said quickly, for my aunt still looked strained and worried. "I didn't say anything to any of my friends back in Manchester, so no one can get any information out of them, even if they know the right people to ask."

"No one?" she repeated.

"Just Severus," I replied. "But I trust him."

That statement didn't appear to reassure her -- if anything, it did the opposite -- but she didn't know him as I did. So I added, "And so does Albus Dumbledore."

To which my aunt gave a faint nod, and managed a watery smile. If it required the Headmaster's name to give Severus any sort of credibility for her, so be it.

For myself, I knew I could trust him with my life...


	16. Chapter 16

Well, there's no way I can get this story finished before November hits, so I will just keeping working away and let it unfold at its own pace. Probably during November I'll only be able to get one chapter in, as I'll be doing NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), but I might be able to get one more chapter done before it starts. Thank you to everyone for your wonderful reviews -- if I'm having a bad day I just go back and read some of your lovely comments. :-)

* * *

Sixteen

No sooner had he set foot in Spinner's End than Snape found himself wishing violently that he could be quit of the place forever. Oh, it had seemed dismal and confining almost from the moment he took up residence there, but at the time he had looked on the cheerless little house as a necessary evil. Now, however, after a windswept day with Celeste on the Welsh coast, he realized how truly mean and dark this second home of his really was.

At least Pettigrew was nowhere in evidence. The hour was late -- almost midnight -- and Snape supposed that the rat had simply disappeared back into his hole. Not bothering to look for his wretched roommate, Snape stalked up the stairs to his own room, shut the door behind him, and whispered the spell to keep the door barred against any intrusions, magical or otherwise. He knew he should sleep, but he also knew that wasn't what he really wanted.

He wanted _her_.

So much so, in fact, that his whole body seemed to ache with desires he had spent the greater part of two decades suppressing. As he'd kissed her that last time, he'd sensed the same need radiating out from her, so strong that it had felt almost like a wave of heat surrounding him. Somehow, though, he'd managed to wrench himself away. It was too soon.

Wasn't it?

With a vicious gesture Snape pulled off one shoe and flung it into the far corner of the room. The second shoe soon followed. His garments he tossed carelessly across the foot of the bed instead of hanging them with his normal care.

How had he allowed himself to come to this pass? What had happened to his much-vaunted self-control, his cool detachment, his utter indifference toward the feminine sex?

_Celeste Jenkins happened to it_, he thought. Celeste, who had done something no one else ever had. She had seen him. Not his reputation, not his dour and unappealing outward aspect, not the "black bat of the Hogwarts dungeons" or the "greasy git" or one of any other number of epithets he'd heard students use over the years to refer to their unpopular Potions master. None of that had affected her, because for Celeste it simply didn't exist.

She loved him. Had, in fact, uttered that statement with a complete lack of drama or emphasis, as if it were a fact so completely understood that it didn't bear analyzing. The sky was blue. The sun rose in the east. Celeste Jenkins loved him.

And he knew he loved her, at least as much as a crabbed, harsh soul such as his could. Even now he could only think of the next time he might see her, the next chance he might have to steal a few hours with her. Obsessed, worse than some hormone-crazed sixth-year trying to get in a few furtive kisses on the steps of the Astronomy Tower.

Logically, he knew he couldn't go tearing off to Wales every time his body started craving her, like some Muggle drug addict seeking a fix. He had responsibilities, duties to be carried out. This was the time of year he usually began to think about replenishing his stores in preparation for a new round of classes, but Snape realized, with an odd little pang, that he would no longer be teaching Potions. When he returned to Hogwarts this September, the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom would be his new domain.

That thought led him to wonder who precisely Dumbledore had lined up to take over the Potions classes. The list of possible candidates was regrettably small; so few people these days really gave the subject the respect it deserved. Perhaps he should put together a list; it might help the Headmaster, especially if Dumbledore hadn't yet made a final decision as to a replacement.

Then Snape shook his head at himself, mocking the feeble attempt to direct his thoughts in such a way so that they wouldn't linger on Celeste. _At this point, you probably wouldn't care if they appointed Dolores Umbridge to teach Potions if it meant you could spend more time away from school_, he thought sourly, settling himself into bed and trying not to think about how very much he would have preferred to have Celeste there beside him.

His body stirred at the thought, and Snape forced himself to ponder other matters. Perhaps Potions supplies were no longer necessary, but he still needed to travel to Diagon Alley and drop in at Flourish and Botts to make sure the necessary titles for the Defense classes were in order. The students of course hated _Defensive Magical Theory_ because of how Umbridge had abused the textbook the previous year, but it had some elements that were of value, although the textbook's timid approach no doubt rankled some of the bolder members of the class. But Snape also felt that _Dark Magicians and How to Recognize Them_, along with _Counter-curses and Hexes_, would do nicely.

If, of course, any of those thick-headed twits he was forced to teach could muster the necessary brain cells to employ the spells in the correct manner without blasting themselves or their study partners into next week.

Celeste would be fine. After he had watched her disappear through the back door of her sturdily elegant guest house, Snape had spent some time walking the streets of Aberystwyth, looking for anything that felt wrong, any jarring elements that might have signaled the presence of dementors or dark magic.

He found none. Because of its large student population, the little seaside resort had a fairly active night life, and the streets had been almost as crowded as they were during the daylight hours. But although he'd muttered a few oaths under his breath about bumbling, drunken Muggles, Snape encountered nothing more hazardous than a motorcycle with a sidecar that was obviously being piloted with someone with more than a few pints under his belt.

Appearances could be deceiving, he knew. However, he saw nothing to suggest that Aber was anything more than a quiet, out-of-the-way spot, a place in which Celeste could comfortably hide for some time, if need be. She had chosen well. Whether that was due to one of her odd flashes of insight or plain dumb luck, Snape didn't know. But at least he was able to Disapparate back to Hogwarts feeling as secure as he could, given the situation.

Surely she would be all right for a day or so. Just long enough for him to go back to Hogwarts, collect his notes, and then take care of business in Flourish and Botts. After that he could return to Wales, where they could decide what to do next. Celeste's current location seemed to be working well enough for her now, but he had no idea of her financial situation. How long could she really afford to keep staying at that guest house, which he guessed was anything but inexpensive?

Of course all his careful plans might come to naught if he were unexpectedly summoned to the Dark Lord's side. Snape hoped that wouldn't be the case, but he had dealt with such interruptions numerous times in the past; he could do so again if necessary.

Satisfied that he had ordered his mind enough to sleep, he turned over in his narrow bed and pulled the thin blanket more closely around him. The night was chill, and he had not bothered to light the furnace when he returned to Spinner's End.

Still, he couldn't help thinking, as he drifted into the darkness, that it would have been much better if he had Celeste next to him to keep him warm.

* * *

"Professor Snape!" 

Snape paused on the doorstep of Flourish and Botts, a scowl already creasing his forehead. He had hoped he could get in and out of Diagon Alley without seeing anyone he knew, let alone Remus Lupin, whom he had never been able to forgive for seeing him in his moment of greatest weakness. Still, Snape managed to reply, in civil tones that surprised even him, "Remus."

The erstwhile Dark Arts professor was looking shabbier than ever, Snape noted; the patches on Lupin's threadbare tweed jacket appeared to be in need of patches themselves. His robes had the rusty-black hue of fabric that had been washed so many times the dye itself was leaching out. Shadows showed under his eyes, and his thin face seemed etched with too many lines for someone his age, but Remus still managed to smile slightly and say, "That last draught you whipped up for me seemed to work better than ever. Fiddling with the ingredients again?"

"I do strive for constant improvement," Snape replied, wondering how Lupin managed to maintain his good spirits despite his circumstances. Indeed, although the werewolf had only been able to function on the margins of wizard society due to his unfortunate affliction, Snape had very rarely seen Lupin displaying anything but mild good humor. He sometimes wondered how Remus managed it.

"Well, it seems to be working," Lupin said, and then he lifted a sandy eyebrow as he appeared to give Snape an appraising glance. "You look -- different. Been getting a bit of sun?"

Barely restraining a guilty start, Snape answered with a ready lie, "I was gathering some fresh potions supplies in the woods yesterday. The sun was rather bright, I suppose."

"That must be it." But Lupin's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he wasn't quite sure he believed the story.

Snape began to wonder whether Celeste's kisses had left some visible imprint on his mouth. Or could the knowledge that she loved him and the memory of her embrace be enough to have changed something in his aspect? He certainly hoped not. Then again, he had spent far too much time outdoors yesterday. Probably the combination of wind and sun had brought some color to his normally pallid skin.

"At any rate," Lupin went on, "I'm a little surprised that you're bothering to restock, Severus, considering you're moving on to the Dark Arts and Slughorn's coming back to take over the Potions classes."

"What?" _Oh, excellent_, Snape thought, _go ahead and show Lupin that he knows more about your own classes than you do..._

At least Lupin had the grace to appear somewhat uncomfortable. "Well -- that is, Albus mentioned that he planned to ask Horace if he would return and take up his old post. I hadn't heard that he'd agreed yet, but the Headmaster has a way of convincing people to do what he asks of them, doesn't he?"

Yes, he did, a fact Snape knew all too well. Up to and including taking over the Dark Arts position and training orphaned witches... He remained silent, though, glaring at Remus, who frowned a little and added,

"I'm sure he meant to tell you as soon as it was certain. But Albus mentioned that you haven't been around Hogwarts much lately -- "

"Other duties have called me away," Snape interjected, his tone forbidding further questions.

"Ah, yes." Lupin fiddled with the lapel of his shabby jacket, then said, "Congratulations, by the way."

"For what?"

Remus looked surprised. "For the Dark Arts position, of course. That's what you always wanted, isn't it?"

Had he been that obvious? Snape supposed he had. Oh, Potions fascinated him, but he'd always felt that his past experiences with Voldemort made him an ideal candidate for the Dark Arts professorship, never mind the rumors that the position had been cursed for the past several decades. Paradoxically, now he had actually achieved what he'd considered for so many years to be his heart's desire, Snape found that being the next Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts didn't seem as important as it once had. Far less important, astonishing as the notion seemed, than the woman who waited for him on the Welsh coast.

"I was honored to accept the position," he said, his tone sounding stiff even to himself.

At that comment Lupin attempted to conceal a smile, without much success. "How very correct," he said. "Well, I shan't keep you. No doubt you have other business to attend to -- as do I. The Headmaster has kept you informed, I assume?"

Snape inclined his head a fraction of an inch. He knew that Dumbledore had given Remus Lupin the challenging task of trying to infiltrate the notoriously insular werewolf community, which no doubt accounted for Lupin's presence here. He could have been mistaken, but Snape had gotten the impression that Remus had just emerged from Knockturn Alley before he hailed Snape. For a second he reflected that Lupin had perhaps an even more thankless duty to fulfill than he did.

Perhaps some of Snape's thoughts showed in his face. For whatever reason, Lupin looked unaccountably grim, then said, "Be careful, Severus." And with that he moved off in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron, no doubt heading back into the maze of London's streets.

For a moment Snape stood there on the steps, watching until Lupin's shabby form disappeared into the crowds. The news that Dumbledore planned to ask Horace Slughorn to take up his old position as Potions Master was unexpected, but not completely surprising. At least the man was qualified, although Snape had always found Slughorn's obsession with status and predilection toward social climbing to be distasteful in the extreme. Still, he was fairly harmless, and a better choice than anyone else on the short list Snape had composed the evening before.

_Something else taken care of_, he thought. And with that, he realized, he was free. The book order at Flourish and Botts had been attended to, and so far there had been no unwelcome twinges from the scar on his left forearm. The rest of the day was his to do with as he pleased.

And he knew exactly what he wanted to do with it...

* * *

Along the Welsh coast the day was not quite as pristinely bright as the one before; clouds had begun to move in from the ocean, and they had a heavy, gray look that promised rain before nightfall. Still, the air felt brisk and clean, very different from the heavy, petrol-scented fog that seemed to blanket London. 

Snape had been forced to Apparate back to Hogwarts to retrieve his Muggle attire, and once there had discovered that Dumbledore had again gone off somewhere mysterious. His absence wasn't entirely surprising -- after all, the faculty's time was their own during the summer holidays -- but Snape would have like to speak with the Headmaster, if only to let him know that he wouldn't face any opposition regarding the appointing of Slughorn as the new Potions Master. At least Snape's brief stopover there gave him a chance to peek into his Friend Glass and ascertain Celeste's whereabouts. She appeared to be sitting at a table in a café near the promenade; a cup of some steaming liquid sat in front of her, and she had a pair of ridiculous wire-framed glasses perched on her nose as she frowned into a book. It appeared she planned to remain there for some time.

Apparating into a populated Muggle area during broad daylight presented some difficulty, but during his perambulations of the evening before Snape had noted several quiet alleys where he thought he could appear without too much risk of discovery. So he popped back into Aber in the dubious company of an overflowing dumpster and a hostile-looking cat, but luckily there were no other observers of his violation of the laws of physics. Stepping over a pile of discarded newspapers, he made his way out onto the street, moving in the direction of the waterfront.

By now the day was sliding into late afternoon, and several of the shops he passed were already locking up and hanging "Closed" signs in their storefronts. Since it appeared in the Friend Glass that the weather had turned chilly, he had brought along a jacket, but Snape chose to keep it draped over one arm. The regular workday had come to an end, and the streets were fairly crowded with people either heading home or perhaps looking for an early evening meal. Snape picked his away through the crowds, trying to ascertain which of the small restaurants and cafés along the waterfront Celeste had chosen as her destination.

Finally he spotted her, in a place whose awning proclaimed it to be Morgan's Café. But just as his gaze settled on her familiar fall of red-brown hair, Snape made the unpleasant realization that she was not alone.

A fair-haired young man Snape had never seen before hovered behind the chair opposite Celeste's; his hands had grasped the back of the seat, but he hadn't yet sat down. Celeste was regarding the stranger with arms crossed and a wary expression on her face. The glasses she had been wearing earlier rested on the tabletop next to her book.

"Just one cup," the young man was saying, as Snape moved quietly within earshot. "You didn't come all the way to Aber to spend your whole time here alone, did you?"

At that moment her gaze moved past the stranger and settled on Snape, and a sudden smile lit up her face. It was like seeing the last flash of sunset burst forth from the clouds. "As a matter of fact," she said, "I didn't. And now I see that my date is here."

The young man turned slightly and then gave Snape an unbelieving stare. "Who? _Him_?"

Snape felt the time was ripe to intercede. "Yes, 'him,'" he drawled. "And I believe the young lady wishes you to retire."

The stranger -- hardly more than a boy, really, obviously a student from the college -- muttered something under his breath about Snape being the one who looked as if he should retire. Snape lifted an eyebrow, matching the young man's glare with one of his own.

Apparently deciding that he was no match for the Potions Master, the stranger glanced away, then shrugged. "No accounting for taste, I suppose," he said, then sidled off quickly before either Snape or Celeste could reply.

She looked up at Snape, and the dimple in her cheek deepened for a second. "My knight in shining armor," she remarked.

"Obviously there are additional hazards to leaving you alone that I hadn't considered," he said dryly, pulling out the chair and seating himself.

"You have no idea. Perhaps sitting alone at a seaside café and attempting to read _Bridget Jones's Diary_ is some sort of signal that a woman wants to be approached by perfect strangers."

"I wouldn't know." Snape noticed a waiter hovering uncertainly in the background and waved him over. "Double espresso," he said, thinking he could use a recharge. All this chasing about had begun to take its toll.

"Serious, aren't you?" Celeste asked, after the waiter had disappeared back into the café proper. "I can't drink that stuff after noon."

"I'm always serious," Snape replied, and then wondered why she grinned at him.

"I have no doubt," she said. Then, if possible, her face brightened even more. Snape could see why random strangers would approach her. She suddenly seemed the most desirable woman in the world to him, despite her baggy clothing and untidy hair. "Severus, you'll never guess what happened!"

Wary, he said, "What?"

"I met one of my aunts earlier today! Can you imagine? She lives right here in Aber!"

This proclamation came from so completely out of left field that for a few seconds Snape could only stare at her. An aunt? Was this some sort of joke? But Celeste's expectant face told him he needed to make some sort of response, so he managed to rasp out, "How did she find you?"

Celeste's reply was immediate, and reassuring...somewhat. "Oh, she didn't. I mean, we bumped into one another up at the Arts Centre. I do resemble my mother very much -- at least, that's what Aunt Bronwen says -- and she recognized me immediately."

"Aunt Bronwen," Snape repeated.

"Yes," Celeste said. "Bronwen Cadogan. She was married to my Uncle Rhys -- I never even knew I had an Uncle Rhys. And Cadogan is my real last name. I'm half Welsh. Who knew?"

Not Snape, although he supposed he could have discovered that information easily enough if he'd bothered to do a bit more research on Celeste's parents. Then again, he hadn't exactly been overburdened with spare time in the days since he'd met Celeste. He realized with a shock that he'd known her for barely two weeks. Amazing how she'd managed to insinuate herself into his heart in such a short amount of time.

"And did you meet this Uncle Rhys of yours as well?" he asked.

The shining look disappeared from her face. "He's dead," she said quietly. "Killed in the War -- with -- "

"Don't say it here," Snape cut in, and Celeste clamped her lips shut, then nodded.

"Anyhow," she said, after an uncomfortable silence, "my Aunt Bronwen is the only one who actually lives in Aber. My father's family is from Swansea, but she settled here about fifteen years ago, after...well, after." A bit of the impish light returned to Celeste's eyes. "And you'll never guess what she does!"

"Most probably not."

At that moment the waiter reappeared with Snape's espresso, and Celeste paused until he had deposited the cup on the tabletop and then moved off back into the interior of the building. Snape and Celeste were the only ones sitting at the sidewalk tables, although normally during the summertime that location was in high demand. The wind off the water had picked up, and he thought he saw Celeste shiver slightly inside her battered suede jacket.

She waited while he took a cautious sip of the hot liquid, then said, "She's a psychic. Like me."

Snape set down his cup. "What?"

"Well, not really like me. She said there's an organization called the Ministry of Magic that has witches and wizards acting as false psychics and making bad predictions so that the Muggles will think there isn't any such a thing as true Divination or magical powers. Can you believe that?"

Of course he could, as Snape had known of the Ministry's Department of Magical Obfuscation ever since he was a boy. Most often the witches and wizards who worked for the Department were the types without much magical ability, often only a few levels above being outright Squibs. They were still doing important work, but it was one of the few instances where possessing weak powers was actually a benefit.

He knew better, however, than to point out the shortcomings of this newly discovered aunt. "I know of the Ministry's work in that area, yes," he replied at length.

Celeste shot him a wry look, obviously underwhelmed by his cautious answer. "I just think it's amusing -- here she is trying to make Muggles think that psychic powers are rubbish, and for the past seven years I've been doing the exact opposite!"

"Oh, very amusing," he answered, his tone making it obvious that he thought the situation was anything but humorous. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more alarmed he became. Just who was this Bronwen Cadogan? Snape had never heard of her, but that meant little; she and Celeste's parents were of a different generation than his, and if she'd been tucked away in Wales all this time of course he would never have encountered her. How could Celeste be sure that this woman was even who she said she was?

For a few seconds Celeste sat watching him, her fingers ruffling the edge of the dust jacket on her book. "You don't seem very pleased."

Snape said, "I'm not." Ignoring her frown, he leaned forward and went on, in low but urgent tones that he hoped would make her realize the gravity of the situation, "How do you even know this woman is truly your Aunt Bronwen? Did you stop to think she might be one of _his_ servants?"

Celeste's cheeks, already flushed from the brisk ocean breeze, seemed to redden further. "How stupid do you think I am?"

"I don't think you're stupid. But I do think you can be somewhat naïve. Trusting."

"Like I was with you?"

_Touché, my dear_, Snape thought, but he refused to let her see that she had nettled him. "That was different."

"Because it was you? If it makes you feel any better, my Aunt Bronwen has the same low opinion of you that you apparently have of her."

"You told her about me?" The words came out more sharply than he had intended, and Snape saw Celeste wince.

"Not everything," she said, giving him a knowing look as she said _everything_. "Of course not. But I did mention how you were the one who found me, and that you'd been training me -- oh, Severus, I know you think I'm an innocent fool, but I'm not completely stupid. After I had tea at her flat I gave her a good-bye hug, and I knew she had been telling me the truth. I felt it from her immediately. She's no more than she says she is."

Snape refused to let Celeste see the relief he felt at this revelation. Keeping his voice as stern as if calling a student to task over some botched Potions assignment, he said, "Be that as it may -- you've still come into contact with someone who had been forced to keep your identity secret for years. If only I knew the exact parameters of the Fidelius Charm your mother cast -- " He broke off, realizing that Celeste was staring at him with a simmering anger in her eyes.

"How did you know that? Aunt Bronwen just told me about that horrible spell, and how it kept any of my family coming to help me when I needed them the most -- "

"Because it is my business to know such things!" Lowering his voice, he went on, "Because I myself have also taken part in a Fidelius Charm, although its purpose is far different from the one your mother cast to keep you safe. Its strength is that it continues, doing its work, even if the Secret-Keeper, the one who alone can divulge that which is being hidden, dies or is otherwise incapacitated." His lips thinned as he thought of the Longbottoms, condemned to years of blank-eyed madness. "Usually the Secret-Keeper is someone other than the one who casts the spell, but not always. Obviously your mother felt it was best for her to take on such a dual role. The problem now is that we have no idea exactly what the Charm your mother cast entailed, other than the fact that obviously your relatives could not approach you in Manchester, or speak to others of your existence."

The anger faded from Celeste's eyes as quickly as it had come. "Bronwen had no trouble speaking to me here," she said with a slight frown, as if she were trying to decide whether that were a violation of the Charm's strictures or not.

"Precisely. So does that mean she's now free to speak to others about you, since you approached her of your own free will, or does the Charm still hold? Did your mother set up the spell to allow certain circumstances to circumvent it?"

"Like a back door," Celeste murmured.

Snape frowned. "A what?"

"It's a term computer programmers use. I heard it in a film once." She lifted her own cup and drank, although Snape suspected that the liquid inside was now stone cold. "I think it's a way to go around whatever security protocols have been put in place in a computer system. So maybe they couldn't come to me, but that wouldn't stop me from coming to them."

"Possibly." He sipped at his own espresso as he considered the problem. The Fidelius Charm was a fiendishly complicated spell; it had to be, to try to encompass so many variables and keep so many individuals keyed to the preservation of a vital secret. It had done a good job of protecting Celeste up until this point, but had she unconsciously undermined the spell by coming here to Wales?

Speculation was fine, up to a point, but Snape knew that the most important thing now was to do some sort of damage control. "Your aunt must be told to say nothing of seeing you here."

"Don't you think she already knows that?"

"Probably," he replied, "but sometimes people do very foolish things when they're not thinking clearly. In her excitement in rediscovering a niece she thought she had lost forever, your aunt might inadvertently say something to another family member. Again, perhaps that's not the end of the world, but as word spreads it would become more and more likely that this information would fall into the wrong hands."

Celeste was silent for a moment. Then she sighed and said, "You're right. I had these mad fantasies of going off and meeting all my long-lost relatives, but that's not very wise, is it?"

He saw no reason to soften the disappointment he knew she must be feeling. Better for her to face the reality of the situation now. "No."

Misery showed in the tight set of her lips, but Celeste merely nodded. "You won't have to Obliviate her, will you?" she asked, the words barely above a whisper.

Surprising that she would have thought of it before he did. Snape felt privately that that was probably the most elegant solution, but from the few comments Celeste had made on the subject, he got the impression that this Aunt Bronwen probably wouldn't let him get close enough to cast the spell.

"No," he said, wishing he knew whether or not he was telling the truth. "I would prefer to avoid that."

The relief in Celeste's face was obvious. "Then I'll go back and see her -- her flat isn't that far from here. I had to leave when I did because she said she had a client coming in at four, but I suppose she must be done with that by now." She bit her lip, then said, "Do you mind waiting for me? Somehow I don't think it's a very good idea to bring you along."

"I don't mind waiting," Snape said immediately. _Not when you're so worth waiting for..._

She smiled and stood, gathering up her oversized bag. Then, before he realized what she was doing, Celeste came around the table, bent down, and kissed him full on the mouth, apparently not caring that they were both in full view of the various tourists and passers-by on Marine Terrace.

"More of that later," she said with a wink.

He watched her walk away into the crowd until she turned down Terrace Street. His lips still tingled from the brush of her mouth against his. Celeste Jenkins had kissed him, right there in broad daylight, and he found he was glad she did.

Snape signaled the waiter. "Another espresso," he said, and did something that surely would have shocked his students, had they been around to witness it.

He smiled.


	17. Chapter 17

Hi, everyone -- I'm back after a very successful NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). I managed to complete a manuscript of a little over 100,000 words in a month, so now I can come back and work on the stories I neglected during November. I have to say that I did miss Snape and Celeste very much. ;-)

Oh, another piece of good news -- I just heard that a selection from _The Overlooked_ has been accepted for a reading during Authors and Artists Night at Phoenix Rising in New Orleans next May. I hope some of you were planning to attend the conference -- I'd love to meet you in person!

* * *

Seventeen

Time passed. Snape ordered another espresso, cast a jaundiced eye at the lowering heavens, and tried to tell himself not to worry. Perhaps this Aunt Bronwen of Celeste's was merely the verbose type, and Celeste was having a difficult time getting herself away. Still, as the minutes dragged by with no sign of the girl, Snape began to expect the worst. Visions of her being carried off by Death Eaters or struck down by an Avada Kedavra curse began to prey on his mind. Although Celeste hadn't said exactly where her aunt lived, Snape thought it wouldn't be too difficult to find out, even though he didn't particularly fancy having to ask the pinch-faced waiter where the local psychic lived.

A drop of moisture struck his face, and then another. Snape could have written it off as sea-spray -- the café was separated from the waterfront by only a narrow road and a stretch of white beach -- but he feared that the rain, which had been threatening all afternoon, had finally made up its mind to dampen this section of the coast. A few drops were nothing, but if it really started in, then he'd have to take his waiting game inside. He didn't care about getting wet, but a man who sat alone at a table in the rain was the sort of man who attracted notice, and of course that wouldn't do at all.

He'd actually begun to push his chair backward and gather up his espresso cup when at last he caught sight of Celeste, who was hurrying down the street toward him, her cheeks glowing in the brisk air. Any recriminations that he might have considered hurling at her over the length of time she had taken to visit her aunt evaporated suddenly as he looked at her, at the delicate face made even more luminous by its contrast to the bleak, gray day that surrounded them. Damn it, no one had ever told him that caring for someone would turn him into such a weak fool.

The first words out of her mouth were an apology. "I am so sorry, Severus," she said, blinking as a drop of rain tangled in her eyelashes. "Bronwen is a dear, but I'm afraid she does have a tendency to keep on talking once she's gotten started. And since I didn't think it was a good idea to tell her you were waiting for me..." She trailed off, looking at Snape with some uncertainty.

"It's fine," he said, although a few minutes ago he'd been feeling anything but fine about the situation. "But it's begun to rain -- perhaps we should go inside, or find somewhere else to take shelter."

For some reason Celeste flushed slightly, but she merely said, "It's almost dinner time -- there's a pub down the street that Mrs. Evans says has heavenly shepherd's pie. Does that sound any good to you?"

It sounded marvelous, actually; her words reminded him that he hadn't eaten anything since his meager breakfast. "That should be fine," Snape replied, and surprised himself by smiling down at her. He jingled the coins in his pants pocket. "I even remembered to bring Muggle money this time." Remembering that he hadn't paid for that last cup of espresso, he fished out a one-pound coin and laid it on the table.

The rain chose that moment to begin falling in earnest, and Celeste startled him by grabbing his hand and practically hauling him bodily down the sidewalk. He hastened his steps to keep up with her, feeling something of a fool. But all around them people were likewise scattering into various shelters, and none of them seemed to be paying much mind to his and Celeste's breakneck pace.

Their destination turned out to be only five or six shops down. Celeste pushed the door inward ahead of him, and he followed her into the pub's warm, smoky confines. Most of the time the smell of tobacco made him feel faintly ill, but here, mixed with wood smoke from the hearth at the far end of the room, the fragrance of something toothsome wafting in from the kitchen, and the vaguely homey scent of damp wool, it somehow intensified the sensation of warmth, of shelter.

"Two, then?" asked the plump woman who came to meet them.

"Yes, please," said Celeste.

They were shown to a small table off in a cramped corner that made up in privacy what it lacked in comfort. No menus here; the woman who had seated them reeled off a limited bill of fare, all of which sounded wonderful at this point. He ordered shepherd's pie, as did Celeste, then requested a Guinness.

Celeste asked for something called a Snake Bite, a name that made Snape lift an eyebrow in her direction before he could recall that she probably knew nothing of the different Houses at Hogwarts or their respective mascots.

"What on earth is that?" he asked, after the proprietress had moved out of earshot.

The rain had dampened Celeste's hair so that it clung to her forehead in damp little tendrils and straggled across the moisture-blotched shoulders of her worn suede jacket. Whatever eye cosmetics she had worn had smudged the skin beneath her lower lids. But her cheeks were flushed and rosy even in the dim penumbral light that made its way into the pub from outside, and she didn't seem to care a whit for her disheveled appearance. She grinned and said, "It's half lager, half hard cider."

"Sounds dreadful," he commented.

"It's actually very good," she replied. "However, I doubt you believe me. No matter."

"And so?" Snape prompted.

Celeste cast a curious glance in his direction, then said, "Oh, of course. My aunt. Don't worry -- it's all taken care of."

"So she hadn't spoken to anyone?" He refused to allow himself a feeling of relief.

"Well, only my Uncle Owen," she replied, and another smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "I didn't even know I had an Uncle Owen. I feel like Luke Skywalker."

"Who?" Snape asked, wondering if he had heard her correctly.

She shook her head, still with that smile playing around her mouth. "You _have_ led a sheltered life, haven't you? Well, that would take more time to explain than we've probably got -- and I suppose it's not important. At any rate, Aunt Bronwen said she'd only had a chance to call my uncle in Swansea, and when I told her it was very, very important that no one know about my whereabouts, she immediately rang him back and explained the situation. So that's handled, then."

But was it, really? Snape knew that keeping secrets could be like fighting a hydra; cut off one head, and three more would grow in its place, all threatening alternate ways of leaking the information one was trying so hard to keep private. But Celeste had done the best she could, and he supposed that having only one more person in on the secret, when she had so very many aunts and uncles, was about the best he could have hoped for.

He remained silent as the plump hostess returned with their drinks. After she had gone, he said, "Let's just hope that both your aunt and your uncle know how to keep their mouths shut."

A flash of irritation crossed her face, but Celeste only replied, "I did tell my aunt how important it was that she say nothing to anyone else. And I heard her say the same thing to my uncle -- several times, in fact. After all, they've spent the last fifteen years keeping quiet on the subject; it's not as if they haven't had any practice."

_Yes, but they held their tongues because the Fidelius Charm made them_, the less charitable part of his mind thought. _Whether they can do so through sheer willpower remains to be seen._

Snape knew, however, that voicing any further concerns would only upset Celeste, and for what? She had no control over the actions of her relatives. She had done what he told her to do, and beyond that he could only hope that her welfare was as important to those unseen relatives as it was to him.

Just because those worries could be pushed aside for now didn't mean that there weren't others equally pressing to be dealt with. He allowed himself a drink of Guinness before saying, "I do need to ask you a rather -- delicate question, if you don't mind."

Celeste looked almost amused. "That sounds ominous," she commented.

Snape decided the direct approach was best. "How long can you afford to keep staying here?" he asked. "That guesthouse you're currently in can't be cheap."

"No, it's not," she said candidly. "Could I live there the rest of my life? Of course not. Can I stay through the end of the summer? Probably. I've already told Mrs. Evans that I was thinking about keeping on through July and August, and she said she would give me a discount for that long a stay. And I'd only planned to keep the car for the first week or so. But after that?" Celeste lifted her shoulders, then took a sip of her own drink. "I suppose I hadn't really stopped to think about long-term arrangements. I just knew I needed to get out of Manchester for a time."

But her eventual residence was something that would have to be considered, if Manchester proved to be too risky for Celeste ever to return. Perhaps her precipitous flight had put the dementors -- and Voldemort -- off the scent. Snape couldn't be certain at this point, and of course he didn't dare make inquiries of the few people who might know something. He did not presume to visit the Dark Lord uncalled for, and asking questions of anyone else in the inner circle was equally out of the question.

But if she couldn't go back to Manchester, and couldn't afford to stay here indefinitely, what on earth could she do? He had a sudden mad idea of hiding her away in Hogsmeade, in one of the flats above the shops in the village. Surely no one would think to look for her there, and he could go visit her during his off-hours...

That was insane. Even discounting the very real fact that in Hogsmeade (as with most small villages), everyone knew what everyone else was doing, and that his comings and goings would certainly be noted no matter how careful he was in concealing them, plunking Celeste down in the center of the only magical population center in Britain, a place that Voldemort no doubt watched carefully, would be foolhardy to the point of madness. If Sirius Black had lived, perhaps she could have been hidden in the old Order of the Phoenix headquarters at Grimmauld Place -- though Snape doubted he would have enjoyed the thought of Celeste living in such close proximity to Sirius. But the Order had abandoned the house immediately after his death, so that option, however distasteful, wasn't available.

"Your pie," came a hearty voice at his ear, and Snape barely kept himself from starting. The proprietress laid an overflowing dish in front of him, settled a similarly laden one in front of Celeste, and then departed.

The food gave him an excuse to remain silent. He gathered up his fork and excavated a large mouthful of mashed potatoes, lamb, and vegetables. It tasted as good as it smelled.

"It _is_ a sticky situation," said Celeste, her own fork hovering above the cloud of mashed potatoes. If it weren't for the fact that he'd have known if she were trying to read his thoughts, he would have said she'd been practicing a little Legilimency. Her mouth quirked, and she added, "I suppose I shall just have to move in with you."

At that Snape choked on his pie.

"I'm sorry," Celeste gasped, her expression halfway between concern that he was going to require medical intervention and amusement that she had hit so obvious a nerve. "It was a joke!"

Still coughing, he shot her a narrow glance before pouring some Guinness down his throat to soothe its abused muscles. "Very droll," he said, once he was able to get the words out.

Her eyes looked stricken, but Snape thought he saw the dimple flicker in her cheek. "Hadn't I warned you about my strange sense of humor?"

"Apparently not," he replied in disapproving tones.

What would it be like, though, to have her there next to him every night when he lay down to sleep, to feel her warmth pressed against him in the chill mornings of the Hogwarts dungeon? Celeste had said she was joking. Little did she know how close her chance remark had come to his heart's desire.

"I am sorry, Severus," she said, and this time she sounded completely serious. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"You haven't," he replied, taking care to keep his tone cool and even. "However, that solution is out of the question, for a multitude of reasons."

Celeste's eyes dared him to reveal what they were, but she only took a few bites of her shepherd's pie and remained silent. For once her mobile features were curiously neutral; Snape could only guess that their current blankness was the result of a fierce effort to keep her emotions at bay. Had he hurt her, by dismissing her comment so coldly? How could he explain that, as much as he longed to be with her, he didn't dare? Fate would not allow him the same freedom of choice most men enjoyed. Perhaps one day, if he were granted some grace he really didn't deserve, but until then --

"It's all right," she said quietly.

Snape looked up to meet her level gaze. In the dim light of the pub her eyes appeared quite dark, and in contrast her skin was very pale. How he wished he could have reached out to lay his hand on hers, but not here -- the habits of isolation had been too deeply ingrained in him. Celeste had the courage to kiss him in front of everyone on Terrace Street, it seemed, but he knew that if their roles had been reversed he would not have done the same. He knew he should say something to ease the tension that stretched between them, palpable as the smoke that hovered over the men sitting at the bar, but he found himself at a loss. Instead, he lifted his pint glass and drank again, not because he really desired the taste of stout at that moment, but because he couldn't think of anything else to do.

After a few seconds Celeste tilted her head slightly to one side and asked, "Can I be brutally honest?"

That sounded more than a little alarming, but Snape merely nodded. At least if she kept talking it meant he didn't have to.

She fortified herself with a sip of the concoction that sat before her, then said, "I don't pretend to have the answers to any of this. I don't know why I was born with these talents, or why I have this connection with Vo -- with _him_. But I do know one thing." For a few seconds she glanced down and stared at the tabletop, as if she'd suddenly found something fascinating in the pattern of the battered wood grain. Then she pushed her half-eaten shepherd's pie off to one side, clasped her hands together, and gave him an earnest look. "We never know how much time we're going to have. I can see other people's futures, but I can't see mine. I could elude _him_ for years, or he could catch up with me tomorrow. And if that's the case, then I want to have been with you at least once. Far more often people regret the things they haven't done than the things they have. I don't want us to be like that."

Snape found himself unable to do much more than stare back at her in dumbfounded silence. Was she really proposing what he thought she had? As much as he wanted her, and as much as he'd wondered how he would ever approach her in such a fashion, he'd never thought that she would be the one to broach the subject. He'd never thought that he would be on the receiving end of such a proposition.

Apparently discomfited by his continuing inability to speak, Celeste drew a nervous finger through the pooled moisture on the table top that her pint glass had left behind. "Have I misread you?" she asked at last. "I thought -- that is, from the way you kissed me, I -- "

A few words finally managed to force their way up to his tongue. "You haven't misread me," Snape replied, his voice sounding thick and halting even to him. "I simply didn't think you were ready." _What a lie_, his brain flung at him. _It's you who aren't ready_.

At that Celeste smiled, a look of enormous relief passing over her features. "Oh, I'm ready," she said. "Believe me." The dancing light returned to her eyes, and she added, "Let's get out of here, and I'll show you how ready I am."

* * *

Neither of them had an umbrella, and the rain had continued to pound the little seaside town throughout their meal, but Celeste laughed her way through the storm, lifting her face to wind and the wet. Snape found he couldn't be so blithe about the situation, but something about her joy communicated itself to him, even as his body both tensed and thrilled at the thought of lying with her. And underneath it all was a faint thread of worry that he somehow wouldn't be able to bring himself to commit the act, that either his brain or his body would betray him at the last moment, that it wouldn't allow him to finally take some pleasure in something he'd long thought of as the pathway to his damnation. 

He paused on the back step of the guest house, hanging back, even though the rain continued its onslaught, and he was completely chilled and wet through. Although the place seemed quiet enough, its residents either retired for the night or gone out, Snape worried that someone would see him come in with Celeste and guess immediately what they were up to. Not that anyone except him would probably care in this day and age; Muggles seemed to jump in and out of one another's beds with careless abandon.

Celeste seemed to guess at the source of his hesitation and said, "Oh, don't worry, Severus. I already told Mrs. Evans that I might be entertaining a certain -- gentleman during my stay here."

"You what?"

Her teeth flashed in the glare of the light that illuminated the back door as she grinned at him. "Well, I had to say something in case you ever did end up coming back here. I had hoped...well, let's just say I was keeping my fingers crossed. And Mrs. Evans was quite understanding and said she was glad that I hadn't planned to spend my entire holiday alone. So come on -- it's freezing out here."

Snape couldn't argue with that, and although Celeste's casual attitude toward the entire situation still unnerved him somewhat, the desire he felt growing within him was strong enough to overcome any lingering doubts. He said, "Lead on, then."

Another smile, and she pushed open the door and led him inside. At least it appeared they wouldn't have to traverse the entire length of the downstairs corridor to make their way to her chamber; a smaller staircase almost immediately to the left proved to be a shortcut to the guest rooms on the second floor. He followed Celeste, trying to move as quietly as possible. Her room was located about midway down the upstairs hall, and she had the key out even as they approached the door. She unlocked the door and then shut it quickly behind Snape as soon as he entered the room.

The place was neat and had a sparse elegance of which he approved. Dark wood furniture that looked to be about the same age as the house provided the main focus of the chamber, which had plain white walls and a window that probably afforded a good view of the ocean during the daytime. A closed valise sitting on a luggage rack at the far end of the room and a glass on the table next to the bed were the only signs that the place was occupied; obviously Celeste had kept it as tidy as her home back in Manchester.

She crossed immediately to the radiator and adjusted the heat, then turned to Snape and gave him an awkward smile. "Awfully cold out there tonight," she said. Her breezy attitude seemed to have deflated now they were alone together, as if she had suddenly realized that the evening could have only one possible conclusion.

His own clothing clung to him, wet through and exquisitely uncomfortable. Of course Celeste would have a change of clothes here, but he had nothing. Then again, he could just excuse himself and go to the bathroom (which he was relieved to see was part of Celeste's guest room, and not located down the hall, as was so often the case in these older houses), cast a Quick-Dry spell on his soaked trousers and shirt, and be back out in a moment.

He'd opened his mouth to suggest as much when suddenly she was there next to him, her fingers working the buttons on his sodden shirt. Her eyes glinted up toward him, even as a wicked little smile touched her mouth. "You really should get out of these wet things," she murmured.

Perhaps it was the smile. Perhaps it was the feel of her hands against him, pulling at his shirt. Or perhaps it was just the realization that he was finally alone with her, in a place where no one could find them, where they were free to drown themselves in one another. Whatever the case, it was if she had uttered _Incendio!_ and lit his entire body on fire.

His own hands grasped the shoulders of her wet jacket and pulled it from her, then tossed it to the floor. Underneath she wore a simple white undershirt, spotted with moisture where the jacket hadn't protected it. Amazed at his daring, Snape took two handfuls of the thin, elastic fabric and yanked it loose from the waistband of her jeans, then drew it over her head.

Celeste didn't protest this treatment -- far from it. She laughed as she was freed of the damp garment, then shook her wet hair back over her shoulders. Underneath she wore a plain white bra, utilitarian and unadorned, but it still served to reveal the sweet curve of her breasts and the narrowness of the ribcage it encircled. Dimly he realized that she had finally undone the last of his buttons and was pulling the shirt from him; he'd never been so unclothed in front of another person in his entire adult life. Perhaps at another time he would have felt some self-consciousness at the pallor of his skin or the faint beginnings of the belly he'd started to see in the last year or so. Now, however, the only thing that seemed to occupy his entire being was his overwhelming need for her -- a need that only intensified as he watched her reach behind and unhook her bra.

Reaching out, his hands cupped her revealed breasts. They weren't overly large, but full and rounded and so very, very soft. He'd never felt anything so wonderful in his life, nor as immediately gratifying as the low moan that escaped her lips as he touched her. But he needed more than that -- he needed to taste her, to know every part of her. He pulled her against him then, feeling the heat of her unclothed skin against his, the wave of desire that made him strain against the trousers he still wore.

But then he felt her fingers working his belt buckle, and next the button and zipper of his Muggle pants. She pushed them away impatiently, moving on to slide her hands inside the waistband of his briefs, and then on down, down...

His head rocked back, and he bit his lip to hold back the startled moan that had tried to burst forth from his lips. Never before had he experienced a sensation remotely close to this. For what might have been a few moments or even a few seconds he could only stand there, feeling the ripples of pleasure flooding through his body. Snape knew if he didn't stop her now, he'd climax immediately, long before things had progressed to their natural conclusion. So he stepped away from her, clasping her slender wrists in his hands, and led her over to the bed, pausing only to divest himself of his socks before they went any further.

Celeste still wore her damp jeans; his own fingers, so clever when it came to mixing potions or measuring ingredients, fumbled with the button fly, and in the end she gave a little laugh and pushed his hands away, then popped open the buttons and kicked the pants off into some dark corner. Her own underwear was as simple as her bra had been, and she fell back onto the bed, panting, as he pulled it away and flung it to one side.

Then they were on the bed together, bodies bearing down against one another. His mouth found hers and she kissed him, her hands caught in his wet hair as she pressed her lips against his. Once again he reached up to caress her breasts and listened to the low moaning sound in her throat as he did so. It seemed the most natural thing in the world then to move down and take one of her breasts into his mouth, to feel the indescribably soft skin against his tongue as she gasped against him. He felt her grasp his right hand and place it between her legs, showing him where she wanted to be touched. More softness, more heat...so much more than he had ever dreamed of. And even as he touched her she reached out to touch him as well, her slender fingers clasped around him, working the very center of his desire.

He knew if they went on much longer he'd explode then and there; even he had his limits of self-control. But he hesitated, knowing that, as far as they had gone, they could still stop now and not be lost forever.

"It's all right," her voice came in the darkness, husky and breathless with passion. "I'm on the Pill."

"What?" he asked stupidly, brain fogged with lust and near sensory overload.

"Birth-control pills, you silly wizard," Celeste replied, sounding almost amused at his obvious confusion.

Of course. The wizarding world had all sorts of spells and potions to handle that sort of thing, but obviously before now he'd never had the need to avail himself of any of them. Trust Celeste to have the situation covered, and although Snape usually had little good to say about Muggles or their science, in this case he was willing to make an exception.

But her words seemed to remove the final barrier between them; he knew he couldn't wait any longer. He moved on top of her, fumbling a little with the unfamiliar geometry of their bodies locking together, and suddenly he was inside her, feeling her move against him, her gasping cries as he buried herself in her, lost himself, forgot everything but the darkness and the heat and the waves of pleasure that washed over him, drowning him, and finally bringing with them the blissful oblivion he had so long desired and never dreamed he could attain.

If he died tonight, he would leave this world a happy man.

But never before had he possessed such a desire to live.


	18. Chapter 18

You know that whole "bad to worse thing"? Um...that. ;-) Thanks for the reviews, everyone!

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Eighteen

_From the diary of Celeste Jenkins_

July 10, 1996

I'm in London now, hidden in the anonymity of a half-shabby hotel on the outskirts of the West End. The majority of the other guests here are American; apparently this is a favored destination among those who want to sample a variety of productions and save their money for going out, instead of spending it on their accommodations. No one's given me a second glance, but I can't stop looking over my shoulder, wondering if the next person I bump into in the corridor is going to be one of _them_.

Sometimes I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to stop running. I just want to sit in this room with the chair shoved under the door handle and cry. Unlike me, I know, but I challenge anyone who's seen the things I have during the past twenty-four hours not to feel the same way.

I know I need to get this down in some sort of coherent order, but my thoughts keep rushing furiously around one another, like ants whose hill has been stirred with a stick. The only thing that reassures me is at least this time Severus knows where I am. He's gone now, pulled away by that Voldemort bastard once again, but I know he'll return to me as soon as he's able. If it weren't for that knowledge, knowing that he'll come back and hold me again, I don't know what I'd do.

All right, then. Now more than ever I need to make sure this record is accurate, so I'll attempt to write things as they happened as much as is possible.

First off, Severus making love to me was all that I hoped it would be...that, and more. My experience isn't at all large, since Alex was the only other person I'd ever been intimate with, but Severus of course had even less experience than I did. Even with that, he came to me with such a sense of wonderment, of revelation, that his initial clumsiness hardly seemed to matter. And when I felt him inside me, I felt complete. That sounds so far-fetched and romance novel-ish, but it's the truth. I'd never felt that way with Alex. Oh, he was skilled enough -- as it turned out, I was the latest in a fairly long string of girlfriends -- but those encounters never had the sort of intensity I felt with Severus. Maybe it was partly because we were so attuned to one another. I could feel echoes of desire coming from his mind, and maybe he could sense mine as well. At any rate, nothing I'd ever experienced before had even come close.

We fell asleep afterward, although it was still fairly early in the evening. Some time during the night he awoke and reached out for me, and we made love again, more slowly this time, exploring one another's bodies and extending our foreplay. He lifted me on top of him, his hands moving up to caress my breasts as we locked together once more, and I had to practically bite my lip to keep from screaming out loud. If we'd been alone together in some isolated place, I wouldn't have worried about the noise I was making, but the walls in Mrs. Evans' guest house were none too thick, and I got the idea that the retired couple who shared the room beyond mine mightn't have appreciated being woken up in the middle of the night by the sounds of enthusiastic love-making from next door.

After that we slept once more, this time all the way until the first hints of daylight began to seep through the chintz curtains that covered the window. It had been so long since I'd had a man sleep next to me that I'd forgotten how wonderful it was to wake up next to someone, to feel the warmth of his body as a barrier against the cold morning, or to hear his deep, calm breaths. There was something unguarded in Severus as he slept, none of the usual tension in his jaw or mouth. Instead, his expression was smoothed ever so slightly -- not soft, no, not at all -- but I saw a bit of the person he might have been if life hadn't been so cruel to him, if he hadn't suffered so many blows that would have felled a lesser man.

His lashes flickered, and then I saw him open his eyes and look at me. Perhaps for some the morning after provides some awkwardness, as one has to acknowledge all the intimacies of the night before, but in this case I saw none of that. The black eyes met mine directly, and I thought I saw the faintest hint of a smile on his thin lips.

"Good morning," I said.

"Good morning," he replied, coolly enough, and then pushed himself up on one elbow, as if to take better stock of his surroundings.

"I hope no one was waiting up for you last night," I commented. Of course I was aware of the fact that he was single and didn't have many claims on his time, since he had no obligations at school over the summer. Of his other life, however, the shadowy world where he still had to curry favor with Voldemort, I knew very little.

"Hardly." Then he frowned, as if the thought troubled him in some way. But he said only, "I'm accountable to no one for my comings and goings."

"Well, that's good to know," I said, taking care to keep my tone light. "Then I suppose you don't need to hurry off? Because I'd like some breakfast after all that exertion."

Again that hint of a smile ghosted around his mouth. "I think that can be arranged."

"Splendid." I pushed back the covers and stood, not letting myself worry about the fact that I was still completely naked. Oh, there's always that rush of self-consciousness -- _Does he think my breasts are too small? Is my rear end too big?_ -- but after all, he was obviously attracted to me and I to him, and in those situations the small imperfections don't seem to matter all that much. And, judging by the way he watched me as I crossed the room and gathered up my discarded T-shirt, he didn't seem to have a problem with either one of those troublesome portions of my anatomy.

"Do you want to shower first, or shall I?" I asked, pausing with the T-shirt half-covering my torso. "I'd invite you in with me, but there's barely enough room in that stall for one person."

He lifted an eyebrow. "You're very forward, aren't you, Miss Jenkins?"

I knew from the "Miss Jenkins" that the question was meant to be teasing, so I just winked at him and said, "I'll take that as meaning I should go ahead and shower first. I promise I won't use up all the hot water."

Without waiting for him to reply, I went on into the bathroom and fussed with the taps. Lovely as Bodalwyn House was, the plumbing was rather temperamental; if you didn't get the balance just right, you ran the risk of getting either scalded or frozen midway through your shower, depending on which way the antiquated taps decided to shift.

However, this time the plumbing seemed to be cooperating, and I pushed the shower curtain aside and climbed in, feeling the warmth of the water cascading over me. Wonderful as the sex had been, it still felt awfully good to get clean afterward.

Past experience had taught me that the hot water lasted for about fifteen minutes at the maximum, so I washed my hair quickly and gave myself a good scrubbing with the lavender-scented soap I'd brought with me, since hotel soap tends to be notoriously harsh. I was just rinsing out the last of the conditioner when I glimpsed a shadow moving behind the shower. Even though I saw right away that it was Severus, I couldn't help starting a bit.

I reached down and shut off the water, then pushed the curtain aside. "Just couldn't wait -- " I began, then stopped once I noticed the expression on his face and realized he was fully dressed in the clothing he'd worn the day before, even though it was wrinkled and looking decidedly the worse for wear. "What's the matter?"

In answer he raised his left arm. Last night in the darkness I hadn't noticed it, and up until then he'd always worn his shirts closed to the wrist, but I could see there, as the unbuttoned cuff dropped away from his forearm, a dark outline of what looked like a skull with the trailing form of a snake. It didn't appear to be a tattoo; to my horror it seemed almost to be a brand.

"Yes," he said, mouth as grim as if it had never known how to smile. "What you see is the Dark Mark, placed there by Voldemort, and used as a means of calling his followers to his presence. When it aches -- as it does now -- I must go to him. Immediately."

"But you haven't showered yet," I said, stupidly, as I couldn't think of any other protest to give.

"I can take care of that later. As it is, I must return to Hogwarts briefly, if only to change. It would not do for me to appear before the Dark Lord as you see me now."

No, it wouldn't, if only for the simple fact that the black collared shirt he wore now didn't do a very good job of hiding the marks I'd left on his neck the night before. At least his wizarding garb, if I recalled correctly, had a very high, tight collar that would cover up all the telltales.

"What happens if you don't go?" I asked, knowing even as I did so that I wouldn't like the answer.

"The Dark Lord has various punishments for disobedience, none of them pleasant." With that Severus stepped forward suddenly and drew me against him, damp and dripping as I was, for one searing kiss. Before my mind and body could even catch up, he released me, then said, "I'll return as soon as I can. But until then, be watchful, and try not to speak to anyone unless you've already had dealings with them. I think you're safe here for now, but this summons troubles me, coming so soon after you spoke with your aunt." For one second his eyes met mine, and I could see the anguish in them. "Be careful, my love." And then he was gone, Disapparating with that distinctive _crack!_ I had come to recognize.

For a second I could only think, _He called me "my love,"_ until my addled brain understood the full import of his words. Voldemort had called him, and Severus didn't seem to think this summons was at all random.

The warm, steamy bathroom suddenly felt freezing. I grasped a towel and hurriedly dried myself off, then ran an impatient comb through my hair. Shivering a little, I went out to the bedroom and sorted through my clothing, not caring much what I put on as long as it was warm. A pair of worn jeans and a dark-blue jumper that had seen better days were the first things to come to hand, and I drew them on after slipping into some clean underwear and a pair of thick socks. Not at all stylish, but Severus certainly didn't concern himself with such things, and I only wanted items that were comfortable and easy to move in.

Once I was dressed, I sidled over to the window and carefully drew the curtain aside. The storm of the night before had blown itself out, and once again the harbor danced with little waves of reflected sunlight. As it was the middle of the week, most of the people I saw seemed to be intent on hurrying to their offices or other places of business; certainly I spotted no one watching Bodalwyn House or giving any particular attention to the guest room located at the southwest corner of the first floor.

Severus' words haunted me, though, and despite the fact that I was quite hungry, I didn't know whether it was safe for me to go out. Then again, he had only told me to limit my contact to those I'd already spoken with, so I guessed that meant it should be all right for me to return to one of the cafés I'd already patronized while in town.

Since I didn't want to wait for my hair to dry, I pulled it back into a braid and then straightened up the bedclothes as best I could. No doubt the housekeeping staff would know right away what I'd been up to the night before, but I figured it never hurt to make at least a pretense of keeping up appearances.

I paused at the back door of the guest house to look carefully from side to side before I stepped out, but I saw no one. Maybe that didn't mean much -- maybe dark wizards could sit miles off and spy on me through a crystal ball or something. Once again, I felt myself confounded by everything I didn't know about the wizarding world. I simply had no idea what was feasible and what was not.

What wasn't feasible, though, was for me to keep standing there in the doorway like an idiot. Either I was going out or I wasn't. Simple enough decision.

So I stepped outside and firmly shut the door behind me.

No lightning bolts rained from the heavens. No dark-robed figures appeared to suck my soul out of my body. Quite simply, nothing happened, except the fresh breeze caught in my still-damp hair and told me that probably it would be wise to find a place where I could nip indoors and have some hot coffee and eggs.

Because I had decided I liked their breakfast best, I returned to the Cabin Coffee Bar, the same place where Severus and I had sat after that first momentous kiss on the pier.

Was it really only two days earlier? Somehow it seems as if everything has changed since then. In a way, I guess it has.

I secured a table off in the corner where I could watch the door and be fairly inconspicuous. The same waitress who had served Severus and me earlier in the week took my order once again; I couldn't tell from her expression whether she recognized me, or whether she was wondering why I ate alone this time.

The coffee helped to clear my head a little, as did the bacon and eggs I ordered. I sat at the table for a long while, watching the crowds slowly thin out as time marched past nine-thirty, and even the tardiest of workers had to be off somewhere. Probably I shouldn't have felt guilty about taking up one of the café's tables, since there were plenty to spare, but I kept ordering coffee to make it seem as if I had a purpose for being there, as if trying to hid the fact that the only reason I lingered in the warm, faintly grease-scented space was that I simply had nowhere else to go.

Actually, I did have one place I knew I should visit. Perhaps this was merely coincidence -- perhaps Voldemort had developed a pressing need for Severus' presence that had absolutely nothing to do with the Dark Lord's search for this supposed "Muggle" psychic -- or perhaps not. Whatever the case, I felt that my Aunt Bronwen should be warned Voldemort's agents might be on the move, and that she should be doubly careful. I had no idea what sort of precautions my sonsy, bustling aunt could take against the likes of Voldemort and his minions, but forewarned is forearmed, as my father always used to say.

At that point it was almost ten in the morning, safe enough for an unannounced call. Of course I didn't know what sort of hours my aunt kept, but even if she tended to be a late riser she could hardly fault me for disturbing her too early in the morning. So I dropped some two-pound coins on the tabletop, gathered up my bag, and pulled my jacket back on before stepping outside. Even though the sun was out, the wind from the sea still carried some bite, and the last thing I need was to catch a cold because I'd let myself get chilled.

Tourists had begun to return to the shore, although I noticed few of them were brave enough to actually try any sunbathing. Still, it was a cheerful scene, what with their brightly colored umbrellas and beach chairs, and I found myself reflecting what a beautiful little place Aber was. Perhaps I could be like my aunt and end up settling here. Most people don't have all that much choice in where they live -- they go where the jobs are, or where their families have taken them -- but I was pretty much free to go where I chose. Perhaps this would be a good place to make a clean start.

I turned down the side street where my aunt's flat was located and climbed the stairs to her place. All was as I had left it -- the floral printed mat that guarded the entry, the shining brass knocker that looked a little out of place against the faded blue paint of her front door. But since my aunt had so thoughtfully provided it, I lifted the handle on the knocker and let it fall.

A long silence followed. I waited, thinking perhaps she had been far away from the front room and simply hadn't heard me knock. But as the empty seconds ticked away, a feeling of uneasiness began to work its way up my spine. The hair on the back of my head prickled.

_Stop it_, I told myself. _Did you stop to think she might simply be in the loo?_

Perfectly plausible, I knew, so I made myself rap away with the knocker once again, just to make sure. Again, nothing. I pressed my face close to the door and called out, "Bronwyn? Are you in there?"

I hadn't really been expecting an answer, and I didn't get one. Some mad impulse had me place my hand on the doorknob, and to my surprise it turned easily. Even though I knew I should probably just get the hell out of there, I pushed the door inward, took a few steps into the fussy living room, and then stopped dead, my brain at first not able to register what it was seeing.

My aunt lay on her back in the middle of a floral needlepoint rug. Her eyes stared straight up at the ceiling, and her face was contorted by a truly appalling combination of shock and terror.

I knew she had to be dead. Surely no one could have that sort of expression on their face and still live. But I stepped closer, then made myself kneel down next to her and lay two trembling fingers against her wrist, searching in vain for a pulse. Of course there was none...just as there was no visible sign to show how she had died. If it were possible for a person to die of fright, I would have said that was what had done it.

Perhaps it had. Perhaps there was a spell so fearsome, so truly malignant, that it could cause a person to die like that, eyes widened in horror, face pulled into a rictus of loathing and despair. And surely only one person -- or possibly his followers -- would perform such a spell.

Very gently, I let go of my aunt's wrist and got to my feet. My legs shook and threatened to betray me by collapsing, but I forced some air into my lungs and made myself take one step toward the door, then another. I made myself glance around the apartment, but I saw nothing else disturbed, nothing to indicate that a hideous murder had taken place here not so long ago. The skin on my Aunt Bronwyn's wrist had felt cool, which meant she must have died at least a while earlier. Not being a forensic specialist, I couldn't hazard how long, but it seemed that whoever had done this was long gone. Perhaps I shouldn't have felt grateful for anything at this point, but I murmured a silent prayer to God or whomever else might be listening in thanks that at least I hadn't blundered into a trap. Or perhaps I had, and they were just waiting to release it, toying with me by offering false hope.

That thought spurred me on and away. No one tried to stop me from leaving, and even though my whole body had started to shake and I felt as if I were about to lose my breakfast at any moment, I forced myself to slow down, to walk along Marine Terrace as if nothing untoward had happened. In the light foot traffic on the street I saw no one who looked out of place, and no one who gave me more than a cursory glance.

I knew I should call the police. I should do something, when my poor aunt was lying dead in her living room, needlework flowers blooming around her head like some horrid travesty of a funeral bier. But perhaps Voldemort's followers had infiltrated the police, perhaps they could somehow tap into the phone lines...

_Oh, don't be an idiot_, I scolded myself. _They're wizards, not bloody MI6 or something_. From what I could tell, members of the wizard world tried to separate themselves from us Muggles. Not that I really could call myself a Muggle any longer. Still, I knew I couldn't trust anyone...except Severus, and he wasn't here with me now. He had left me alone.

That way led to self-pity, though; I gave myself a mental shake and made myself concentrate on what to do next. Severus would return when he could, and even though every mental instinct was telling me to leave, and now, I didn't want to disappear on him yet a second time. He'd been rather vague as to how he had found me in the first place, and I didn't want to trust to luck that he'd be able to locate me again. On the other hand, I felt fairly certain that returning to Bodalwyn House was a singularly bad idea. I had no way of knowing how much information -- if any -- my Aunt Bronwyn had given away before she was murdered. She could have died defending my secrets, or she could have been put through such excruciating torture that her murderer had been able to wring my current whereabouts from her.

So, knowing that I couldn't go back to the guest house, but also terrified of being captured by Voldemort's followers, I wandered aimlessly along the waterfront, then managed to attach myself to a group of university students who appeared to be getting a guided tour of Aber's sights. I had the vague feeling that there was safety in numbers, and that certainly even the boldest of dark wizards would think twice about attacking someone who was with a group as large as that. Although I got a few curious looks, as several people in the group tried to figure out who I was, no one challenged me, and I was able to go on for a few hours before the tour broke up around noon, presumably so the students could go to lunch.

By then I deemed it prudent to slip quietly away before someone got up enough nerve to start asking me question, but where to go next? I wanted to stay with places Severus and I had gone together, as I assumed those would be the locations he'd seek out first once he realized I wasn't at the guest house. On the other hand, I need to stay in clear view of other people if possible...not that any of them would probably be able to do much in the event of an attack by Voldemort.

In the end, I returned to the Brasserie on the pier, the restaurant where Severus and I had shared that lovely meal just a few evenings before. It felt safe, and right then I needed a little of beauty and comfort around me. I needed something to remind me that the world hadn't gone mad.

Or maybe it had been mad all along, and I was only just now realizing it.

I ordered a bowl of soup, even though I knew eating it would be difficult, if not downright impossible. I also asked for a glass of wine. Perhaps merlot and seafood chowder wasn't the best combination, but right then I cared more about settling my nerves than whether my food pairings were up to snuff.

The wine came first, and I took one sip, then another, and felt a bit of spurious calm settle over me. Certainly my prosaic surroundings seemed the last place where one would expect to find a dark wizard. If it meant I'd have to order the whole bloody menu to retain my position in that comfortable booth with its view of the sea, so be it. Right then I didn't think I could take another step without Severus at my side.

I glanced at my watch. Almost twelve-thirty. More than four hours had passed since he had left. I had no way of knowing how long Voldemort would require his presence; I didn't know whether four hours was an unusual span of time or not. All I could do was sit there and watch the wind play with the waves on the harbor as I drank my merlot and prayed he would return to me soon.

The soup came. I took my time eating it, but of course eventually it was gone, and I lifted the menu, forcing myself to concentrate on its contents. But in my mind I kept seeing my poor aunt sprawled out across her rug, and that awful expression of pure terror which had contorted her pleasant features. Perhaps I should go to the pay phone I had seen near the front entry and ring up the police. Just a quick, anonymous tip, done and over with long before they could even think to trace the call. Besides, a pay phone would be safe, wouldn't it?

Hesitating, I laid the menu aside, and immediately the waiter returned to see if I wanted anything else. I asked for a baked potato with cheese, since that sounded mild enough my stomach could probably manage it, then told him I just needed to use the pay phone and that I would be right back. He gave an understanding nod -- no doubt he thought I'd been stood up by a lunch date -- and I slid out of the booth and made my way to the front of the restaurant.

I had just tipped a coin into the pay phone when I heard Severus say, "Whoever you're about to call, don't."

Startled, I whirled away from the phone and dropped the handset. He stood in the lobby, arms crossed, watching me with his customary lack of expression.

I think I sobbed, "Oh, thank God!" before launching myself at him. Caught off-guard, he still managed to awkwardly fold his arms around me and pull me close.

For the longest moment I could only stand there, clinging to him the way a stranded swimmer might cling to a lifejacket. Tears choked my throat, but somehow I managed to keep them at bay. Some dim idea that making a scene in the lobby of the Brasserie was probably not the wisest thing to do allowed me to force myself to a shaky calm.

After a bit Severus pushed me away very gently. His dark eyes sought mine with a tenderness I'd never seen before.

I said simply, "My aunt is dead."

He nodded. "I know."

So it had been Voldemort...or one of his minions. At that point I supposed it really didn't matter. "I was calling the police," I explained, since I didn't know what else I should say.

"Noble, but misguided," Severus replied. "No need to call any attention to what happened, or to connect yourself with it. What you do need to do is get out of Aber. Immediately."

"I just ordered more food," I said. My brain didn't seem to be working very well.

For a split-second he looked almost amused. "Well, let us go take care of that -- settle your bill and so forth. I hope there isn't anything in your room at the guest house you're overly attached to."

There wasn't, really -- clothing could be replaced, after all, and I had my purse with my identification and credit cards with me. "No," I said.

"Good."

Severus followed me back to my table, where I intercepted the waiter and apologized for the mix-up, and said that I needed the bill immediately. He looked a little confused, but he did produce the requested piece of paper from his apron pocket. I handed him my credit card, and then he left while Severus and I hovered uncertainly near my abandoned booth.

"So where -- " I began, to which he immediately replied,

"London."

I supposed that made sense; after all, if you couldn't hide someone sufficiently in a place as big as the country's capital city, where could you hide them?

"Not permanently, perhaps," he went on. "But at least until we can decide what to do next. I've located a very Muggle-ish lodging for you -- I can only hope it will be safe for a time."

"But how did you -- "

He held up a hand, his gaze shifting away from mine, and I turned to see the waiter approaching us with my credit card slip to sign. I took care of the transaction, then slid my copy of the receipt into my purse.

Looking relieved that was done with, Severus led me back into the lobby and then, to my surprise, into the men's restroom. Luckily, it was empty, and I lifted my eyebrow at him. "Interesting choice," I said.

"It's unoccupied, and I can't risk anyone seeing us together." With that he reached out and pulled me tight against him. "Hold on."

And then there was the crushing sensation of Apparating, of translating one's mind and body from one space to another in the blink of an eye. A second later we stood in a slightly shabby hotel room that tried for a retro look and failed miserably. Or perhaps it really hadn't been redecorated since the early 1970s. A faint ghost of street noise seeped in from behind the heavy striped curtains.

"I've checked this neighborhood, and it's safe," Severus informed me, after releasing my arm. "But I would advise staying in the hotel as much as possible. Down to the corner and back for food, and there's a second-hand clothes shop two doors from here, with a chemist's beside it, but no further than that. Do you understand?" And he looked so forbidding all I could do was nod faintly.

Then he reached out and held me again, one hand running down my hair to its tangled braid. Horrible as things had been, somehow I felt reassured. Surely no harm could come to me as long as I had Severus as my guardian.

I felt his body go tense, though, and he released me, his right hand touching his left forearm in that gesture I recognized and hated.

"It's him, isn't it?" I asked.

Severus nodded. "I must go. Take care -- and only use this if you must." From within his jacket he withdrew a wand I had never seen before, stained a pale reddish-brown and quite unadorned.

"What happened to my wand?" I asked. Then I realized it had been left with the rest of my belongings in my abandoned room at Bodalwyn House.

"I took it -- just in case."

"In case of what?"

At that question he just shook his head. "In case it's needed." The black eyes met mine briefly. "You trust me, don't you?"

Without hesitating, I answered, "Completely."

"Then trust that I know what I'm doing." He bent and kissed me, a hard, quick kiss that communicated some of his frustrated need and worry. Then he stepped back, and was gone, the outraged air protesting his sudden departure.

And after that I had very little to do but take up this journal and write. The words help to keep me calm, although I know at some point I'll have to slip out and purchase the few necessities I need. But for now it's better to stay here, in this dingy little room with its faint lingering scent of cigarette smoke, and pray that Severus really does have the means to save me...


	19. Chapter 19

I am sooooo sorry it took me so long to update this -- I've been dealing with illnes, a car accident, various household disasters, and life in general, but I think I'm back on track now. I really do know how this all ends -- I just need to get there. Thank you all for your patience -- I promise that I won't let it go so long again!

* * *

Nineteen

Severus Snape never had much use for Muggle technology. However, as he made his way to the front entrance of Voldemort's abode, he reflected that perhaps the simplest way to end the entire mess would be for someone to drop a bomb on the shabby estate and blow it -- and its shadowy occupant -- into a million bits. Unfortunately, since the Dark Lord had somehow managed to cheat death all these years, Snape somehow doubted that he would meet his end at the hands of Muggles.

That a second summons had come so quickly on the heels of the one from earlier this morning disquieted him. He had faced Voldemort that first time and managed to conceal all thought of Celeste from the Dark Lord, but for some reason keeping this secret felt a thousand times more difficult than any subterfuge Snape had managed in the past.

As he had feared, Bronwen Cadogan's gossiping ways had proved her undoing. Oh, Celeste had told Bronwen not to inform anyone of her niece's whereabouts, but just telling Owen Cadogan of the girl's existence apparently had been enough. Even though Snape had sent Celeste back to her aunt's flat to make sure that Bronwen spoke to no one on the matter, the damage had already been done the night before. She'd rung up her brother-in-law and dropped several pieces of vital information, and Celeste's Uncle Owen had been impolitic enough to mention the happy news of his niece's miraculous reappearance while making his usual round of the pubs that same evening. No doubt he'd thought the story would earn him a few free pints. Still, the indiscretion, in and of itself, might not have been disastrous...except that one of Voldemort's informers had also been in attendance at the Three Sickles that same evening and had lost no time in hurrying to the Dark Lord and telling him of Celeste's existence.

Voldemort followed up this piece of remarkable intelligence by dispatching the Carrows to interrogate Owen Cadogan. He'd shown unexpected resilience by surviving most of the night under the force of repeated Cruciatus Curses, but in the end he had told them where to find his sister-in-law. The Fidelius Charm had held, however; at no time did he ever mention Celeste by name, or that her primary residence happened to be in Manchester.

And Bronwen...again, for a witch who was barely more than a Squib, she had acquitted herself well. Celeste's name and any information regarding her whereabouts she took with her to her grave, but enough damage had been done. Voldemort knew that the Seer he had sought had been right there in Aber, and even now he had his agents fanning out through Wales in search of her.

_Keep looking_, Snape thought, allowing himself a small sneer. _She's much farther away than that..._

But how long the spurious safety of London might protect her, he couldn't begin to guess. Bronwen hadn't disclosed any details of Celeste's appearance, but Alecto, following the informer's tip that "Celeste was the spit of her mother," according to Owen, had cadged an old photograph of Bettina and Bronwen from the time they were seventh-years off Bronwen's bedroom dresser, then had given it to the Dark Lord. Snape himself had seen the photograph resting on the table next to Voldemort's throne-like chair, and the similarity in appearance between mother and daughter was startling. Celeste might almost pass for her own mother, save for the minor differences in their coloring; the memento Bronwen had kept of her schoolgirl days might prove to be her niece's undoing.

Forcing those thoughts away, Snape took a breath, and another, then made himself enter the front door of Voldemort's home. Immediately he heard the murmur of voices coming from the salon where the Dark Lord spent the majority of his time, and Snape directed his steps there, chin high, no thoughts in his head but how he might serve Voldemort and help him find the young woman he so desperately sought.

"Severus," said Voldemort, and the people who surrounded him immediately fell silent. Snape saw the Carrows looking sleek and self-satisfied, like cats who had just dined on a particularly juicy mouse, and standing far closer to Voldemort's throne than they had in the past. No doubt the Dark Lord had already rewarded them for their part in the hunt for Celeste Jenkins. Beyond them Snape spotted Bellatrix Lestrange, Fenrir Greyback, Antonin Dolohov, and a narrow-faced younger man with fox-red hair whom he did not recognize. Quite the party, then -- Voldemort seemed to have most of his favorites around him.

"My lord," Snape replied, and made a low bow.

"A favor, my old friend."

Voldemort's "favors" were usually anything but. However, Snape assumed an expression of interest, as if he'd been waiting his entire life to fulfill the Dark Lord's smallest request. If he'd dared, Snape might have allowed himself a small smile, for Bellatrix scowled on hearing Voldemort's calling him "friend." She hated to see the Dark Lord to show favor to anyone but herself -- and even though Snape had made the Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa to protect Draco, he knew that the boy's aunt still didn't trust him. Luckily for Snape, the Dark Lord so far had not heeded her counsel on that particular matter.

"Anything, my lord."

"Such a trifle," Voldemort said in musing tones, laying one skeletal hand over the carved armrest of the chair in which he sat. "Just this one girl, this young woman who believes herself a Muggle and certainly has no way of defending herself. And yet she somehow seems to possess a distinct gift for Disapparating...or at least the Muggle equivalent."

Snape allowed the slightest questioning note to enter his voice. "My lord?"

"The Cadogan girl -- although I have the feeling that is not the name she uses these days. This child of a seventh son and a seventh daughter." The Dark Lord cast a baleful look at the group of sycophants who had clustered around him; all of them, save Bellatrix, shrank backward slightly. "And yet my faithful Death Eaters tell me that there is no trace of her to be found, even though we know she was in Aber as recently as this morning."

"Indeed?" Snape raised an eyebrow. "When we met earlier, I was led to believe that her relatives had proven remarkably resistant to questioning."

"True," the Voldemort agreed, "but Muggles will let drop all sort of information...when properly persuaded."

Snape said nothing, made himself think of nothing, but only waited to hear what might come next.

The Dark Lord frowned a little, as if nonplused by Snape's lack of response. "The aunt's neighbor saw a young woman of about the right age leaving the apartment late yesterday afternoon. She didn't see where the girl was headed, but Rhys here was able to get quite a good description -- one that matches this very closely." One of Voldemort's skeletal fingers trailed along the edge the ornate gilt frame, while the girls inside giggled and rolled their eyes at what must have been a very funny joke. No doubt their expressions would have been quite different if they'd realized that their eventual fates would be.

The unfamiliar red-haired man gave a little bow as Voldemort inclined his head in his direction. Then the man spoke, his accent betraying his Welsh heritage. "A girl matching that description was seen with a group of students early the next day, although no one seems to have discovered where she went after that. The students were from Cardiff, although we've been unable to find any trace of her there."

"Interesting," Snape managed. That wasn't even a lie -- he hadn't known what Celeste had done with herself all morning after she'd discovered the murder of her aunt, but obviously she had fallen in with a group of university students in an attempt to give herself some sort of protective cover. In other circumstances, he would have allowed himself an approving thought on her resourcefulness, but he knew he didn't dare think of her in those terms here. "And so...?"

"She must be found," Voldemort rasped. "If her Sight is as true as it sounds, then she would be invaluable to me." The reddish eyes fastened on Snape, who could only hold himself still, waiting with feigned eagerness to receive the Dark Lord's commands. "She must not meet up with Dumbledore and allow him to use her gifts. He hasn't spoken of her to you, has he?"

"Dumbledore?" Snape repeated. "No. If he knows anything -- which I doubt he does -- he has kept that knowledge to himself."

The Dark Lord scowled, an unpleasant furrowing of the hairless skin along his brow bone. "Unfortunate. That could have made our task so much easier. On the other hand, at least she hasn't fallen into the hands of that bumbling fool and his equally ineffectual cohorts."

"May I inquire as to how you intend to locate her?" Snape lifted an eyebrow in the direction of the assembled Death Eaters; they all shot him looks of varying hostility, and Bellatrix lifted one corner of her lip in something that closely resembled a snarl. Obviously they did not appreciate the look of mild scorn he had given them.

"Of course." Voldemort smiled unpleasantly. "I want _you_ to coordinate the search, Severus."

* * *

The only good thing about the entire unfortunate situation, Snape thought bitterly, was that at least he could bid adieu to his dingy quarters at Spinner's End for the near future. Voldemort wanted him back at Hogwarts so as not to miss anything Albus Dumbledore might let drop -- when Snape wasn't out scouring the countryside for Celeste, of course. 

If it hadn't been so bloody dangerous, Snape would have found himself amused by the irony of his predicament.

But for now he allowed himself the time to return the few belongings he'd kept at Spinner's End to his familiar rooms in the Hogwarts dungeons. He'd been relieved to find that Dumbledore had returned to the school, because now more than ever he knew he needed the Headmaster's counsel. All during that last interview with the Dark Lord, Snape had felt himself pressed to the limit, forcing himself to make the correct replies to Voldemort while keeping any thought of Celeste buried in the farthest depths of his mind. He thought he'd acquitted himself well, but by the time he left the Dark Lord's shabby manor house, Snape had been as weary as a man who'd spent the afternoon swimming the English Channel.

Nor had matters been helped when he found that Voldemort planned to pair him up with Rhys Davies, the Welsh Death Eater who had overheard the gossip about Celeste in the first place. Thankfully the Dark Lord didn't intend for them to share lodgings, as Snape had with Peter Pettigrew, but still they were to keep in contact, share their findings, compare notes -- in short, pool their resources as they went about trying to locate the young woman. Despite Snape's carefully worded protests that he worked better alone, Voldemort overruled any demurral and said that he preferred that they carry out their search in teams. Snape knew that any further dissent would raise the Dark Lord's suspicion, so he had acceded, with poor grace. Davies would return to Aber to make further inquiries; Snape was expected to meet with him in two days, after he had settled himself at Hogwarts and made contact with Dumbledore.

The Welshman was something of an enigma to Snape; he hadn't encountered the man before and didn't know quite what to make of him. Davies was too young to have been one of the original Death Eaters who had been rounded up and sent to Azkaban, so he must have come over to the Dark Lord's cause in the last few years. On the other hand, he was just old enough that he had graduated from Hogwarts before Snape began teaching there, so Snape couldn't even take the man's measure from recalling what he had been like as a student. For a Death Eater, Rhys Davies seemed almost too innocuous, too friendly and open-faced. No doubt that was what made him an effective spy. In any case, the man was the Dark Lord's tool, just like all the other Death Eaters, and therefore to be viewed with distrust.

As to the rest -- how long he could keep Celeste safe, and how long he could possibly hope to conceal her whereabouts -- Snape had no idea. He climbed the steps to Dumbledore's office slowly, feeling as if the robes that trailed from his shoulders had been fashioned from lead instead of fabric. Very possibly the Headmaster could do nothing to help him, but at the moment Snape only wanted to unburden himself to the only person in the world who knew the truth about his situation.

Actually, he thought, as he stood on the step outside the office door, there were now two such people in the world. He'd spent so many years concealing his true loyalties that he'd almost forgotten Celeste knew almost as much about him as Dumbledore did -- in some ways, even more.

The Headmaster stood by the window, looking over the brilliant green expanse of the Quidditch pitch. He did not turn, but said, "Welcome back to Hogwarts, Severus."

"Albus," Snape said, then paused in the center of the chamber, unsure as to how to proceed. How much did he dare tell Dumbledore, anyway? And how much did the Headmaster even need to know? Certainly what had gone on between Celeste and himself was a private matter. It didn't change the fact that Voldemort now hunted her actively, or that Snape had been dragged into that same pursuit.

"Tea?" asked the Headmaster.

For the first time, Snape noticed the heavy silver tea service that sat on a table next to the wing chair. A wisp of steam drifted out of the teapot.

"No," he said.

"Pity," Dumbledore replied, then moved away from the window to pour himself a cup. "Soothes the nerves. Or at least that's what my mother used to say."

"My nerves are just fine," Snape ground out, and the Headmaster lifted an eyebrow.

"Are they, Severus?"

Annoyed, Snape settled for crossing his arms and then gave Dumbledore an even stare. "Yes."

Without comment, the Headmaster watched as a cube of sugar dropped of its own accord into the cup. A silver teaspoon stirred through the steaming liquid, and then Dumbledore bent down and picked up the cup and saucer. Snape couldn't help wondering if the china were a relic of Dolores Umbridge's stay in the office; certainly it was pink and floral enough.

"How is Miss Jenkins?" asked Dumbledore.

"Hidden," Snape said curtly. "There have been...developments."

Other than lifting an eyebrow while blowing on his tea, the Headmaster showed little reaction. He raised the cup to his lips, then paused and shook his head. "Too hot," he murmured, and set the teacup back down on the little side table. After that he settled himself into the overstuff chair usually reserved for guests, conjured a matching seat out of thin air, and pointed at it. "Do sit down, Severus. You look quite done up."

"Hmph." But after that token protest, Snape did as Dumbledore had instructed. In truth, it did feel good to sit down. Certainly the Dark Lord never allowed any of his followers to be seated in his presence. "Voldemort wants me to find Celeste for him," Snape said abruptly.

"Ah." The blue eyes twinkled. "Awkward."

"That's one way of looking at it."

The Headmaster did not seem at all offended by Snape's sour tone. Then again, he'd had plenty of years to get used to it. "You say she's hidden?"

"Yes. In London." Snape had a sudden flash of the shabby little hotel room where he'd left Celeste and wondered how she was. It had been hours since he'd parted from her; he had to assume that she was safe, that she had followed his instructions and not gone out, except to take care of utter necessities.

"And is she all right?"

"For now." Worry twisted inside him. So far she had eluded Voldemort, and certainly the nation's capital could do much more to conceal one lone woman than the small seaside town where she had been staying. He knew, however, that the Carrows had been ordered off to London to take up the search there. _Those bumbling idiots couldn't find their own ass with both hands_, he thought, but was that really true?

He became of Dumbledore's shrewd gaze resting on him, no doubt reading far more from his expression than he would have liked. Defiantly, he met that stare, jaw clenched.

Those pale blue eyes seemed to hold infinite understanding, and infinite sadness. "It is always difficult, isn't it, when one begins to care?"

Snape felt the tension tighten through his shoulders and gut. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, I fear you do."

How could Dumbledore guess immediately what Snape had been able to hide from the Dark Lord? He looked away then, down at the black wool that covered his knee, the sweep of heavy robes that pooled in the floor at his feet.

"Voldemort has no understanding of the human heart," the Headmaster said quietly. "Indeed, he has tried -- with a good deal of success, unfortunately -- to make himself something other than human. He has never cared for anyone but himself, so how he could possibly recognize that emotion in someone else?"

Still Snape remained silent. So much for the mask of cool indifference he'd cultivated over the years. So much for the impenetrable façade he'd adopted to shield himself from the world and its pain. He thought of Celeste then, of the quick dimple in her cheek, the flashing smile she had given him when he approached her in that seaside café. In spite of everything she had gone through, somehow she still found joy in existence, still embraced the world. And in her arms, he'd discovered a happiness he knew he didn't deserve and thought he'd never have.

The thought of her brightness quenched in Voldemort's shadow, her lively mind subverted to the Dark Lord's will, made Snape feel almost physically ill. _Never_, he thought. _Not if I have to kill him myself._

Failing that, he would rather see her dead than in Voldemort's hands.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Then Snape said simply, "Albus, what should I do?"

No doubt the other staff members at Hogwarts would have been startled to hear the Potions Master utter such a naked plea for help. Dumbledore, however, merely settled back in his chair, steepled his fingers under his chin, and appeared to consider Snape's question with utmost gravity. "Difficult," the Headmaster said at last. "Voldemort has given you this duty...but is it merely because you are one of his most trusted servants, or because he suspects something and sees this as a sort of subtle torture?"

Snape stared at Dumbledore, somewhat taken aback. He hadn't considered that notion. That made the situation even more disturbing; if nothing else, he'd always thought that so far he had successfully deceived the Dark Lord as to his true loyalties and intentions. He gave his last few meetings with Voldemort a quick mental review to see if in hindsight anything had seemed amiss, if any of his exchanges with the Dark Lord had felt off. Try as he might, however, he could find nothing that felt wrong. Snape should have felt relieved, but instead his feelings of disquiet only grew. "I don't think he suspects anything," he said slowly. "At least, not yet. This is my fault, though -- I should have been more careful. I shouldn't have let myself -- "

"You shouldn't have let yourself be human for once?" interrupted Dumbledore gently. "Your isolation has always troubled me, but your personal life was always yours to manage. None of my business, of course. Despite everything, I can't help but feel glad for you, even if this has complicated the matter."

That was an understatement. Even though Dumbledore obviously approved of his connection with Celeste, still Snape felt as if he'd allowed himself to lose control. He should have thought of a way to keep her at a distance, to hold her at arm's length so that she couldn't engage his emotions. It had been sloppy and foolish. Never mind that the hours he'd spent with her were the happiest of his life.

"Go on with the self-flagellation, if it makes you feel better," Dumbledore remarked, with a slight twinkle in his eyes. "I know how difficult it must be for you to accept any measure of happiness in your life. But once you're done with that, we should probably attend to the matter at hand."

As rebukes went, it was very gentle. But Snape got the point. "She left Manchester because she encountered dementors there. Whether they were after her in particular or just because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I don't know for certain. She fled to Aber, thinking it out of the way enough that it would be safe. And it was for a time -- except that she encountered a relative there, who ended up talking more than she should. Hence Voldemort's current involvement."

"Interesting." The Headmaster leaned over and picked up his tea. Obviously he judged it safe to drink, as he lifted the cup to his mouth and allowed himself a small sip. "So the Fidelius Charm didn't prevent her from talking about Celeste?"

"Not to another member of the family. It was the girl's paternal uncle whom the aunt told." Snape frowned, thinking of this unknown Uncle Owen, who had apparently thought a few free pints were of more worth than his niece's safety. Then again, the man of course had no idea that a follower of Voldemort's would be lurking in the pub, ready to seize upon that information. In any case, Owen Cadogan had paid the ultimate price for his indiscretion. "Pity we can't follow up with either relative -- Voldemort's agents killed them both once they were deemed of no further use."

Someone who didn't know Dumbledore very well would have thought he showed no reaction. Snape, however, saw the fractional tightening of the lines around his eyes, the slight compression of his lips. A pause, and then the Headmaster said, "Two more to Voldemort's account. Very well -- so you've taken her to London?"

"I thought it safest, even though the Dark Lord's followers have been seen there. At least one woman is more difficult to find among millions instead of merely thousands." As he spoke the words, though, Snape wondered how true they really were. "But that is still only a temporary solution."

"Of course." Dumbledore sipped at his tea again. "And have you thought of what a permanent solution might be?"

_Kill Voldemort_, Snape thought immediately. Lacking that, however -- "I thought perhaps it would be prudent to take her out of the country altogether."

"That is no perfect remedy, as Igor Karkaroff discovered." The Headmaster's tone was uncharacteristically grim.

Too true. The former headmaster of Durmstrang had been found dead on the continent, the Dark Mark hovering over the shack where he'd been hiding. In that case, distance had proved no impediment to the Dark Lord's fury. Still, if one young woman were difficult enough to find in a city such as London, Snape couldn't help but think that she might be easily hidden in the vast expanses of a place like America. Surely in an area as populated as the Northeast or possibly Southern California, she would be very difficult to locate...

"And would you condemn her to a life in hiding among strangers?" Dumbledore asked.

"At least it would be a life," Snape retorted. Could he stand the pain of taking her someplace so far away, though? Could he leave her there, force himself never to think of her again? Could he bear the thought of her starting over somewhere else...perhaps with someone else one day?

Something inside his gut knotted. No, there had to be another way...

"If you have a better idea, now would be a good time to tell me," said Snape, the words rasping past the tightness in his throat.

At that Dumbledore suddenly looked very tired and immeasurably old. "One would hope that her exile would not be permanent, that as soon as Voldemort was defeated, she could return to her home and take up the life in the wizarding world she's been denied. But until that time -- " The Headmaster spread his hands in a gesture of baffled impotence. "I don't know. Hiding her seems to be the only solution. I wonder, however -- " The words trailed off, as Dumbledore gave Snape a measuring glance.

"What?" he snapped.

"Do you think, Severus, that it's entirely wise for you to know of her whereabouts? If Voldemort has enlisted you to find her, then perhaps her location should be entrusted to someone other than you."

Outrage flared in him -- after all, hadn't Snape managed to keep his loyalty to Dumbledore a secret from Voldemort all these years? -- while the rational side of his mind tried to tell him that perhaps the Headmaster had a point. But how could he suggest that Snape simply walk away, especially since Dumbledore had been the one to suggest that he train the damned girl in the first place?

"Excellent plan, Albus," Snape replied, not bothering to keep the sneer out of his tone. "Shall I entrust her to you? And what are your plans for her? Hiding her in the Hogwarts kitchens with the house-elves? Smuggling her into Molly Weasley's turnip cellar?"

Instead of taking offense, the Headmaster only gave Snape a weary smile. "If I thought any of that would work, of course I would. But while Hogwarts is safe in some ways, in far too many others it is exceedingly visible. As for the turnip cellar -- well, I doubt that Molly would take kindly to the suggestion, as she has high standards for how she treats guests. I'm not asking you to do anything this instant, Severus. I'm only asking you to consider the option."

"Very well," Snape said ungraciously. "Perhaps I will consider it." _Consider it...and then come up with something else_, he thought. "In the meantime, however, I should check in on her. I've left her too long as it is." That sounded very sensible and responsible. Unfortunately, Snape knew deep down that he only wanted to reassure himself that she was still safe, and to steal a few more precious moments with her.

For a short time Dumbledore said nothing, but only watched him with those calm, all-seeing blue eyes. Then he replied, in neutral tones, "I'm sure Miss Jenkins will be grateful for your concern."

_Of course she will_, Snape thought. He wondered then whether he could even convince her to go somewhere without his knowledge -- if he gathered enough courage to admit that was the safest course. Sunny-tempered as she was, Celeste still had an independent streak wider than the Thames. He doubted very much whether she could be forced to do anything she truly didn't want to do.

Without bothering to answer directly, Snape said, "I should Floo from here. I know the Dark Lord has no knowledge of this particular conduit."

Dumbledore merely inclined his head. Snape knew that the Headmaster wouldn't bother with any further arguments. He would merely sit back and watch, and wait for Snape to do the right thing.

Snape could only hope that he would find the strength in himself to do what must be done...

261


	20. Chapter 20

Well, I'm glad ff.n decided to start functioning again -- I actually had this done yesterday, but I kept getting error messages when I tried to log in. Typical. Anyhow -- thank you to everyone for your lovely reviews. We're getting near the end here -- I think there will be three more chapters after this.

* * *

Twenty

As he couldn't Apparate directly from Hogwarts, Snape Floo'd once again from Dumbledore's office to the hearth in the erstwhile Order of the Phoenix headquarters. Although the Order had abandoned the Black home for all intents and purposes after Sirius's death, still it was used for emergency meetings and other expediencies. The only thing Snape needed, after all, was an untraceable means to get from Hogwarts to London. He'd barely stood upright and brushed the soot off one sleeve of his jacket before he Apparated straight into the shabby hotel room where he'd left Celeste.

She was sitting on the bed, moodily munching away at the contents of a bag of crisps. As soon as he appeared, she started. Crisps flew across the ratty orange and gold coverlet.

"I know I shall never get used to you doing that," she remarked, and began gathering up the scattered crisps.

"Obviously it was wisest for me to come in here directly," Snape replied. "This way, no one can see me coming and going."

Giving the crisps she held a rueful look, Celeste stood and then went over to drop them in a dust bin. "Intellectually, I know that. But it _is_ a little startling. Good thing I was dressed."

That stray comment conjured up several enticing images, none of which he thought it wise to pursue at the moment. Still, he could see her point. "A risk worth taking," he drawled.

A lopsided grin caught at Celeste's mouth. "Feeling a bit cheeky today, aren't we?"

Was it possible that he could have missed her so badly after being separated for only a few hours? Somehow it felt as if days had passed since the last time he had seen her. Then again, some of that time had been spent in Voldemort's presence. An hour with the Dark Lord had begun to feel interminable to Snape, especially when he considered the additional burden of hiding his involvement with Celeste.

"Hardly," he said, and there must have been something ominous in his tone, for the smile faded from her lips.

She turned to face him and asked, "What is it?"

"Sit down."

Her immediate reply was to cross her arms and give him a steady, expectant gaze. "Something's gone wrong."

It was not a question.

"Perhaps. It's difficult for me to say for certain." Since she didn't appear to be willing to move, he did so instead, perching at the edge of the lumpy bed and pointedly pushing his robes aside so that there would be room for her to seat herself next to him.

He could see her hesitate, but after that brief pause Celeste did sit down. Having her that close to him threatened to undo his brittle calm. All he wanted suddenly was to pull her against him, feel the heat of her mouth on his, to lose himself for a few precious minutes or hours in the glorious oblivion of her embrace. But he had not come this far to lose his head now.

"There have been...developments," Snape began, choosing his words with care. "You know that the Dark Lord summoned me to his presence. Apparently he wished to charge me with a special task."

"A task?" Celeste repeated. "What task?"

"Finding you," Snape said flatly.

For one hideous second all she did was stare back at him. Then he watched as her eyes crinkled in sudden mirth, and she let out a gasping laugh.

"I fail to see the humor in the situation," he snapped. Really, had the strain of the past few days finally broken the girl's mind?

His comment only elicited more laughter. Celeste brought a hand up to her mouth and drew in a few ragged breaths. It took a few seconds for her to sufficiently compose herself to say, "I'm sorry, Severus. I know this isn't a joking matter. But oh -- how I would have loved to have seen your face when Voldemort asked you to track me down!"

"I'm sure my face revealed nothing," Snape replied, feeling nettled.

"I suppose not," she said, sounding a little calmer. Then she reached out and put a hand on his knee. The touch startled him; he still wasn't used to Celeste's ready affection. "Don't mind me. It's just -- just whistling in the dark, I suppose."

He wanted to say that he couldn't see how that might possibly help, but refrained. Just because she reacted to things differently from how he might didn't necessarily mean her actions were wrong. This was such a novel idea that he paused to consider it for a moment. Surely he wouldn't have entertained such a notion before Celeste came into his life.

"If you wish," he said finally. "It doesn't change the fact that our situation is now made doubly dangerous."

"How exactly?" she inquired. His expression must have conveyed precisely what he thought of this comment, for she said, "Oh, don't look at me as if I were a simpleton! I would think that if you'd been given this job by Voldemort, then it would be easy enough to pass him false information just as you've done all these years while working for Dumbledore."

"Perhaps -- if I were working alone. Unfortunately, I am not."

Some of the light went out of her eyes then, and she folded her hands in her lap, the pale fingers twisting around one another. "How do you mean?"

Once it was gone, he found he missed the pressure of her hand on his knee. "I mean that Voldemort has assigned me a partner, one who even now is in Aber, making inquiries about you."

"Oh," she said, in a very small voice.

"Exactly," Snape said. "Now, perhaps you weren't in town long enough for anyone to have known much about you -- and I trust that you didn't go telling your life story to every sympathetic waitress and barmaid you met -- but people do like to gossip, unfortunately...especially to one of their own. And I'm afraid this 'partner' that the Dark Lord has burdened me with is a Welshman."

"Oh," Celeste repeated, looking even more subdued. Then her chin lifted a bit, and she added, "I don't know how much he could really find out -- I didn't speak to much of anyone. Not about anything important, anyway."

_Just your aunt_, he thought. _And that may prove to be our undoing..._

But he did not bother to tell her that. Recriminations now would be pointless, as the damage had already been done. "What about this Mrs. Evans, the woman who manages the guest house where you were staying?"

Celeste lifted her shoulders. "She wanted to pry, but I didn't tell her much. Just that I was from Manchester and on an open-ended holiday."

Snape felt a cold, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. "You told her where you were from."

"Well, of course. You have to give that information when filling out the registration forms at a hotel."

"That information could have been falsified. Do you think I gave them Hogwarts' address when I booked this room for you?"

She didn't reply, but stared down at her lap instead. Finally she said, in a small voice quite unlike her usual tone, "No."

The defeat in her voice stopped him. Snape had opened his mouth to give her a further rebuke for her carelessness, but why? Obviously she'd gotten the point, and pressing her further on the issue would do neither one of them any good. Surprising himself, he reached out to push back a lock of hair back from her cheek. The strand felt softer than he could have imagined, and he had a sudden memory of that glory of mahogany spread out on the pillow next to him when he had awakened this morning.

"Perhaps it won't matter," he said at last, in a voice so gentle he couldn't be sure it was even his. "At any rate, you're not in Manchester now...and no one knows that you're even here. I trust you didn't go out much?"

At his obvious change of subject, Celeste managed a weak smile, then replied, "Just down to the chemist's for a few necessities, then next door to that secondhand clothing shop. Thank goodness the chemist stocks all sorts of things these days -- I wasn't looking forward to having to wear secondhand knickers!"

He almost laughed at her comment. Trust Celeste to find humor in that sort of practical matter. Still, the remark pointed out all the things he hadn't stopped to consider when he moved her so precipitously from Aberystwyth.

"No one noticed me, I think," she went on, brows pulled together as she appeared to mentally review her brief shopping expedition. "Everyone seemed to be focused on their own business. When I was at the chemist's I thought about having them ring up my own chemist in Manchester, but I decided that mightn't be a very good idea."

"Why on earth would you need to call Manchester?" Snape demanded, mystified.

Color flamed high on her cheekbones. "Well, we did leave everything behind in Bodalwyn House...including my pills." Celeste gave him a direct look, then must have taken note of what he guessed was a mystified expression. "My birth control pills."

"Ah." Inwardly Snape felt thankful that his pale, sallow skin was not the sort to flush easily, or he might have had the same reaction as Celeste.

"Anyhow, I thought that was too risky, so I fell back on Plan B." She leaned over to the battered night table that stood next to the bed and picked up a small paper bag. From there she produced a string of foil-wrapped packets and grinned. "Not my preference, but better than the alternative, don't you think?"

Brow furrowed, Snape stared at the innocuous-looking little packages for a moment, not sure exactly what she was getting at. Then comprehension dawned. He'd never had need of the things, of course, but that didn't mean he'd never heard of them. To think she'd had the nerve to buy a string of the bloody contraptions! "If you think I'm going to put one of those -- those -- " He broke off, and gave Celeste a forbidding stare. "I assure you, I can think of a better way to manage the situation."

"Really?" she asked, looking amused. "Let me guess. When all you wizards and witches are thirteen or fourteen or thereabouts, you get taken off into separate classes and given the Talk...and maybe some suggestions on spells and potions to deal with this sort of thing?"

Her tone was wry, but actually, she wasn't that far off from the truth. Although physical intimacy before marriage was frowned on in the wizarding world even more so than it was with Muggles, hormones invariably got the better of quite a few teenage witches and wizards...and so students at Hogwarts were taught a variety of ways to avoid conception. Snape, Potions expert that he was, knew of no fewer than a dozen different draughts to prevent pregnancy. Unfortunately, he had none of them here with him now, but at least a third of them need only be taken within forty-eight hours of intercourse, so that needn't be a barrier to intimacy. He could just nip back to the dungeons, brew up a batch of the most efficacious potion, and bring it to Celeste.

Assuming, of course, that they would even need it. But he looked at her again, at the hint of a smile curving her lips, and knew that it would take Voldemort breaking down the door and storming the place with an army of Death Eaters to keep him from spending another night with her.

Snape cleared his throat. "Something like that. At any rate, it's a matter I can take care of."

"Glad to hear it," she said. Her eyes met his for a second, and his breath seemed to strangle in his throat. Beneath the amusement he saw a desire that matched his own. Mad it might be, but if he were forced to give her up forever, could he not steal at least a few more hours of joy first?

Then she looked away, and let out a small, rather forced-sounding laugh. "First things first, though. It's almost supper time -- are you hungry? I know I am...especially since you made me spill half my bag of crisps."

"I suppose so," he admitted. What with all the chasing around he'd done this day, he'd hardly stopped long enough to consider such a thing. Now that she had mentioned food, however, his stomach let him know it was high time for a proper meal.

"Great," she said, and picked up a folded piece of paper from the night stand. "Bloke down at the front desk told me there's a Thai place down the street that delivers. I thought it mightn't be a very good idea to go out. Do you like Thai food?"

Did he? Snape couldn't recall having ever sampled the stuff. "I have no idea."

"You have led a sheltered life, haven't you?" Celeste asked.

He would never have thought of his situation in such terms, but to her point of view, it might appear that way. Certainly he had faced terror and doubt and darkness she couldn't begin to comprehend, but all of that had been narrowly circumscribed by the limits of the wizarding world. The familiar commonplaces of her milieu were almost as exotic to him as the magic of his world was to her.

All he said, however, was, "Hardly."

Her mouth curved upward in a smile. "If you say so, Severus." She opened the menu and appeared to pore over its contents. "I'd better not get anything too spicy, just in case. But I think I can come up with something that you'll like. And I got something else at the chemist's, too." With that she leaned over and appeared to fish something out from beneath the bed. With a flourish, she drew a bottle of wine from a paper bag and said, "I was hoping I wouldn't have to drink this all by myself..."

* * *

The night and the day that followed were a blur. Snape made one hurried side trip to Hogwarts in order to mix the potion that would prevent conception and bring it back to Celeste, but otherwise most of that time was spent in the room with her, in hours of lovemaking alternately languorous and impassioned, in sharing meals, in sharing the tiny cramped shower stall while Celeste pushed her naked body against his and laughed at his discomfiture when she insisted on massaging her herbal shampoo into his unkempt hair. In between these activities she would sometimes turn on the television and attempt to explain bits and pieces of the shows to him, but as he couldn't quite get past the belief that watching these idle moving figures in a box was a complete waste of time, she didn't have much success.

The one subject they both studiously avoided was the future. Snape didn't want to destroy this brief idyll with shadows of what might come to pass, and Celeste apparently felt the same way, or at least was content to take her cue from him. Instead, they practiced the Expelliarmus spell with the borrowed wand he had given her, to such success that the person or persons occupying the room below theirs pounded on the floor with some asperity after both he and Celeste had collapsed simultaneously after a particularly wicked double-disarming. Other times, they focused on Occlumency, until Celeste could parry any attempt he made to invade her mind.

All her successes should have made him feel more secure. Instead, Snape became aware of a sense of creeping anxiety, as if all the precautions they had taken would amount to very little in the end. The formless dread he felt, however, refused to take shape, and he pushed it to the back of his mind. Surely it was only his own paranoia. Celeste was safe here for now. And after he had met up with Rhys Davies in Aber, Snape would have a better idea of what his next step should be.

He took his leave of Celeste late Friday morning. His Muggle garments he'd brought with him when he'd returned from Hogwarts with the contraceptive potion, so there was no need to return to the school. He assumed that Davies would also be in disguise; the man worked as a spy for Voldemort, and even with some of the wild attire he'd seen Muggles wearing in London, Snape doubted that wizard robes would go unnoticed.

Celeste kissed him good-bye, an almost fierce kiss. "I won't bother to tell you to be careful," she said, "for it's second nature to you by now. But do come back as soon as you can."

"I will," he promised. He reached out to touch her cheek; its velvet-soft texture still surprised him. "Stay indoors, and keep ordering in."

Her green eyes seemed to laugh at his words. "Such a chore. I'm going to be positively fat by the time this is all over."

Snape merely lifted an eyebrow -- certainly he had seen no alteration in her form over the past few days, even though they had been cooped up inside the cramped chamber and had eaten more rich food than was probably good for them. Then again, they'd come up with a surprising variety of ways to work it off.

"Well, best not keep Mr. Davies waiting," she said, and although her tone sounded amused, her something about her expression had gone deadly serious. "And don't worry -- I'll fill you in about everything you've missed on _EastEnders_ while you're gone."

"I can hardly wait," he drawled, then bent and kissed her once more. After that he fixed in his mind the image of the alleyway he had used in the past to Apparate back into Aber, then murmured the words of the spell.

The scent of salt hit him immediately; he'd spent so much time cloistered in Celeste's room that it seemed as if he'd almost forgotten what fresh air smelled like. Snape lifted his head and let himself take in a deep draught of the clean sea breeze. It seemed to strengthen him and help clear his head. Although he was fairly certain that Davies was no Legilimens, still Snape made sure his mental barriers were in place before he stepped out of the shadowy alleyway and set forth to the pier for his meeting with Voldemort's agent.

Nothing seemed to have changed since Snape had last walked this path; the same crowds bustled along the shore, and the same cars and buses fought for space along narrow streets that had never been designed for modern automobiles. He saw no hint that an innocent woman had met her death at the hands of the Dark Lord's agents only a few hundred feet from here.

As planned, Rhys Davies waited for Snape at the head of the foreshortened pier; apparently it had been damaged in a storm some years back and never fully restored. The younger man had also donned Muggle attire -- his faded blue jumper, worn jeans, and dirty trainers made him even less conspicuous than Snape's black dress pants and black collared shirt. Evidently Davies had far more practice mingling with Muggles than most other wizards of Snape's acquaintance.

"Davies," Snape said, once he'd approached the Dark Lord's agent and was fairly certain the other man had spotted him.

"Snape," Davies returned, with an easy grin. "Right on time -- but I suppose I should have expected no less."

If Davies had been counting on him to acknowledge the compliment, he must have been disappointed. Dispensing with the pleasantries, Snape asked, "What have you found?"

"Some good leads," Davies replied, apparently not at all put off by the Potions master's brusque manner. "That Mrs. Evans does like to talk, I'll give her that. Especially once she found out I was from the same town as her dear, departed husband."

Snape lifted an eyebrow but made no other reply.

Seemingly undeterred, Davies went on, "This girl's going by the name Celeste Jenkins. I put it about that I'd met her in a pub and been quite taken with her, but had lost the number she gave me. Mrs. Evans had no problem believing that story -- not with a girl as pretty as Celeste."

The agent's casual use of Celeste's name chilled Snape. So he'd found out that much already. However, Snape knew he couldn't let Davies see how perturbed he was. Instead, he merely said, "Indeed."

"Quite a looker, that girl. Pity." The man shot a keen blue glance in Snape's direction. "Makes me wonder what the Dark Lord really wants her for."

Quelling the urge to wrap his hands around Davies' throat and slowly throttle him, Snape drawled, "Why don't you ask him yourself? I'm sure he'd be more than happy to fill you in."

The remark hit home, he could tell; Davies went visibly paler and said, "No worries, mate! Just making conversation, so to speak."

Again Snape raised an eyebrow and forbore comment. No doubt Davies' easy manner served him well when gleaning information from unsuspecting Muggles and wizards alike, but already Snape was wondering how long he would have to endure the unlikely Death Eater's company.

"Anything else?" Snape inquired, after an uncomfortable little silence.

"Nothing much here," Davies replied, visibly relieved that Snape had put the discussion back on track. "She might have had family here, but Mrs. Evans said she gave her address as Manchester. So we're off there next."

Damn. Although Snape had known from the start that Davies would probably ferret out that little tidbit, he'd sincerely hoped that the unknown Mrs. Evans would be a little more discreet. But obviously her professional scruples couldn't stand up to Rhys Davies' dubious charm.

"You have her direction, I suppose?" Snape inquired, in tones of utter unconcern.

For the first time, Davies looked somewhat put out. Then he said, "Yeah, but it took some doing. I couldn't get that much from Mrs. Evans without it looking too suspicious. I thought about hitting her with a Crucio a few times to get her to spill it, but the Dark Lord had told me to keep a low profile, what with the Carrows offing the aunt just a few days ago. But then a delivery man came to the back door, and I was able to sneak a look at the register while the Evans woman was busy. So I've got it here." And Davies produced a smudged piece of paper that proved to have Celeste's address written on it.

Several curses bubbled up in Snape's mind, but he forced himself to maintain an expression of bland approval. "Excellent. Then it's off to Manchester, I suppose."

"Right." For a moment Davies looked a little worried. "You been to Manchester? It's just that I'm not sure of the best place to Apparate."

"Allow me," Snape said. The last thing he wanted was to perform a side-along Apparition with Davies in tow. However, he had to appear to be doing everything in his power to track down Celeste for the Dark Lord, so he instructed the Welshman to follow him back to the handy alleyway, from whence they Disapparated, only to appear in another alley a few streets over from the used bookshop where Snape had first seen Celeste.

"Handy," Davies commented. "Been here before?"

"Unfortunately, I was born here."

Not waiting for the other man to reply, Snape strode out of the alleyway, thinking furiously. There was no way Davies could possibly learn of Celeste's current whereabouts from anyone in Manchester, so Snape guessed it wouldn't be too dangerous to allow him to see her home, look through its contents so as to assure himself that she really was gone.

Since he'd seen the address for himself, and since he'd told Davies that Manchester was his town of birth, certainly the Welshman wouldn't think it odd that Snape would be able to find Celeste's home fairly easily. As Davies struggled to keep up -- he was a good three or four inches shorter than Snape and found it difficult to match the Potions master's long strides -- he panted, "Know where you're going, then?"

"Yes," Snape said, without bothering to elaborate.

The house didn't look much different, except that the plants in the flower boxes were beginning to look a bit wilted. Celeste's sign no longer sat in the front window, and a yellowed newspaper languished on the front doorstep.

Since Apparating in from the front was out of the question, Snape suggested that they go in through the back, off the alleyway. Davies just nodded, and followed along as Snape made a detour down the alley and then approached the back gate of Celeste's property. The door to her kitchen was securely locked, but all it required was a quick "_Alohomora!_" and the door immediately opened.

"Nice," Davies commented, giving the immaculate kitchen a quick look-around. He went to the refrigerator, opened it, then shook his head. "Pretty much empty."

"Check the rest of the house," Snape suggested, and they both moved forward, surveying the ground-floor rooms. All was in order, if a bit dusty.

From there they ascended the steps to the first floor, only to find it just as tidy and empty. Snape had never been in Celeste's bedroom before, and found it to be as uniquely hers as the rest of the house -- walls painted the same warm terra cotta shade as the reading room, a lush quilt of what looked like vintage velvets and embroidered silks on the bed, antiques in dark woods. A photograph of her parents sat on the bedside table, and the walls were covered in fabric hangings that appeared Middle Eastern in origin.

"Nothing," said Davies, looking disappointed. He went to the table next to the bed and rummaged through its one drawer, but found only a few pens, a small box of what seemed to be costume jewelry, and a garish paisley scarf. "Scoured, looks like."

"It does appear that she planned to spend some time in Wales," Snape agreed, after making a show of inspecting the half-empty wardrobe. "But since she has already left Aber, determining her current location may be somewhat difficult."

Davies scowled, expression wavering between frustration and fear. No doubt he was already worrying about what Voldemort would say if the two of them went back to report that Celeste Jenkins had effectively disappeared.

"Maybe she talked to someone, told them where she was going?" mused Davies. "Girl had to have some friends."

"Possibly," Snape allowed, all the while wondering what on earth he would do if Davies actually managed to track down any of Celeste's acquaintances. If the Welshman got desperate enough, Snape didn't harbor any hope that he would avoid using the Crucio spell to get information.

"Let's take another look downstairs. Maybe she's got an address book or something."

Since he couldn't think of any way to protest that plan without sounding suspicious, Snape trailed after Davies as he went back down the stairs, and then out to the front parlor. The phone sat on a small table next to the sofa, and Davies went there immediately, opening up the small drawer the table held and pushing around several bits of paper he found inside. "Nothing," he said disgustedly after a moment. "Some take-out menus, a bunc of receipts."

Snape repressed a smile. Apparently Celeste's bout of ordering-in back in London had followed a long-established pattern. The lack of an address book didn't surprise him; she had no family that she'd been aware of, and her circle of friends seemed fairly small. Then again, she should have had some record of her clients' contact information, but perhaps she had taken that with her.

"Suppose it's time for more legwork," Davies said at last, after he had shut the drawer and thrown a baleful look in its direction. "I spotted a pub down the street -- maybe someone there knows something."

That wouldn't do at all; someone in Topham's might recognize Snape as the man who had been seen there arguing with Celeste only a few weeks before. He began to open his mouth to utter some form of protest, only to stop dead at the sound of a key in the front door lock.

Davies whirled to face the entryway, and Snape fingered his wand, which he still held in his right hand.

The door opened, and a fair-haired girl who looked vaguely familiar peered in. For a few seconds she stared at the two men in consternation, and then she demanded, "Well, who the bloody hell are you?"


	21. Chapter 21

Thanks for the lovely reviews everyone -- as far as I know, there are two more chapters to go after this.

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Twenty-One

_From the diary of Celeste Jenkins_

July 11, 1996

This could be the last time I write in this diary.

Oh, that sounds so melodramatic. I want to tease myself over it, but the truth is, I can't -- I don't know what the future holds for me. I can see it for others...although even those visions have become cloudier, as if that strange inner eye has suddenly decided perhaps now would be a good time to shove off and go on holiday for a bit. I only wish I could do the same. I hear Tuscany is lovely.

But I know that won't happen. Severus has pointed out, with grim detail, that running off to the Continent or possibly even America very well might not be enough to protect me. No, whatever happens, we have to face this here, in England.

Awful things have happened, so terrible that I'm not sure I can even bear to put them down here. But I force myself to keep writing, as if scratching out these lines is going to make any difference. It might, though. If nothing else, these words can serve as my testament.

Where to begin?

Chance, or fate. Hard to say. What was it, after all, that drove Severus into Plunkett's all those weeks ago? A simple need to peruse the books there? A reason to get away from the crowds on Oldham Street? He's never said, and in the final analysis, perhaps it doesn't really matter. Things happen all the time in our lives that some people call coincidence, and other people call destiny. Just because I can see the future doesn't mean that I know whether someone -- or something -- is guiding events to a certain conclusion. It could all be random. I hate to believe that, though.

At any rate, after Severus left me to meet up with this unknown Death Eater, this Rhys Davies person (for some reason, that sounds like such a friendly name to me; I have a hard time fitting it to a follower of Voldemort), I stayed in my room as instructed. I'd already come to hate the seventies-vintage color scheme and the faint lingering smell of cigarette smoke that seemed to cling to the upholstery and the ratty carpet, but I knew this wasn't a game. Although Severus seemed to think that no one knew of my presence in London, it certainly wouldn't do to risk fate. Or chance. Or whatever you wanted to call it.

The television palled after a while, though, and the one book I'd picked up at the chemist's -- an old Agatha Christie novel -- didn't hold me over for very long. I knew that Severus had said I needed to stay inside as much as possible, but he had told me that he thought it safe enough for me to stay in the immediate vicinity. When I'd gone to the secondhand clothing store just around the corner, I'd noticed that there was also a used book shop just across the street. Surely it couldn't do any harm to run out and buy myself a stack of nice, thick books, enough to keep me occupied until Severus returned. Whenever that might be.

By the time I'd made the decision to head over to the book shop, it was almost six. I hoped that the place would still be open -- it's plenty busy around here, what with all the theaters and general foot traffic, but you just never know. If they had closed for the day, I'd just return to the chemist's and see if there was anything else on their meager rack of paperback books that might possibly tempt me.

The air outside was dank and cool, much more suited for an early evening in November than the middle of July. I found myself missing the fresh breezes of the Welsh seacoast, the clear blue skies and open expanses of water. At that moment I wished violently that I could have stayed in Aberystwyth forever, that I hadn't been driven from my sanctuary by Voldemort's agents. I closed my eyes briefly to shut out the memory of my poor aunt's body, sprawled so incongruously on her floral needlepoint rug. At that moment I felt a rush of anger at the arrogance of this so-called Dark Lord, this man who thought he was above law and morality and common decency. All this, and for what? So that he might live forever? Who the hell was he to determine that he should be the one to flout the rules of nature in such a way?

It would have been a great irony, I thought, as I marched grimly down the sidewalk toward the used book shop, for Voldemort to capture me and force me to see his future -- only to have me tell him that he was going to die in the very near future. No doubt anyone who delivered such information to him would perish immediately after providing it, but perhaps it would almost be worth it. Not that I really hoped to have the chance, and God knows Severus was doing everything in his power to make sure that I never would.

The shop was small and cramped, not as neatly set up as Plunkett's. Its shelves were stuffed full of books, though, and frankly, as long as I found something worth my while, the general décor could be ignored.

I wandered through the stacks, pulling anything that looked interesting. My father had always been a great reader, and so I'd naturally followed in his footsteps, as well as adopting his varied tastes. My gleanings from this go-'round included everything from an omnibus volume of Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories to a battered copy of Herman Wouk's _The Winds of War_ (nice fat one, there...I knew it would keep me occupied for quite some time). I wasn't much of a romance reader, but I found a few Mary Stewart titles that looked fun, and she always intertwined the romance with a good suspense tale, so those should prove to be diverting as well.

In the end I had accumulated quite a stack and figured I should probably go ahead and buy what I'd found before I needed a hand cart to haul it all back to the hotel. I'd just set everything down on the counter next to the cash register when I heard a familiar voice -- one I thought I'd probably never hear again -- say, "Celeste?"

I turned, and looked into Alex Worrell's astonished hazel eyes. For a few seconds I couldn't say anything. After all, I hadn't seen him for more than two years. And although I knew that he had settled permanently in London, I certainly hadn't expected to run into him. London's a big place...but maybe not so large when fate (or chance, or coincidence) is involved.

But there he was, staring at me as if he'd seen a ghost, or possibly a mythical creature like a unicorn or a griffin. It's odd to run into someone who once was so important to you -- your brain keeps trying to overlay your memories of them with the person you see now, and the effect can be a little jarring. Once I'd recovered myself, though, I noticed that he hadn't changed all that much, although he looked a bit heavier. Not in a bad way, just that he seemed more solid. More adult.

"Well, erm...hi, Alex," I returned, after the silence had gotten a bit too awful.

Immediately he said, "What on earth are you doing in London? Don't you know that Fiona's been driven frantic?"

The vaguely accusatory tone was all too familiar. Excuses began to bubble to my lips, until I stopped to process what he'd just said. "Fiona?" I repeated. Then a wave of guilt washed over me as I realized I'd never stopped to call her to at least let her know I was all right. Everything that had happened to me in Wales had swept me along in its tide, and I'd completely forgotten there was one phone call I really should have made.

"Yes, Fiona," he replied, watching me out of narrowed eyes, as if he weren't quite sure whether I'd finally just lost my mind. "She rang me up a few days ago, asked me if I'd heard from you. I said of course I hadn't, and I asked her what was going on. She told me that you'd simply vanished from Manchester -- cancelled your appointments, boarded the cat -- "

I wondered briefly how Fiona had discovered all that in such a short amount of time, then realized she had really missed her calling -- she should have worked for MI5 instead of an advertising agency. And poor HBC. I'd thought of her from time to time, knew she'd be well cared for where she was, but that solution was only temporary, if for no other reason that I'd only paid up the vet for two weeks of boarding. That time was rapidly running out.

"I suppose it would look that way," I said after a pause. "Really, I just needed to get out for a while. Nothing terribly mysterious."

Alex gave me a very hard, very level look. I'll admit here that I still haven't forgiven him at some level -- even though I have no desire to get back with him -- but my feelings don't change the fact that he's anything but stupid. I hadn't spent much time looking a mirror lately. God knows what he saw in my face, what the past days of terror and doubt had done to me.

"What kind of trouble are you in, Celeste?" he asked, his voice softening.

The gentle tone almost undid me. It's so much easier to hang on when you know you need to be tough. But Alex's obvious worry made a scary tension build in my chest, and I took a deep breath. I couldn't break down in front of him. I just couldn't.

"No trouble," I replied.

He lifted an eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment the sales clerk finally appeared and asked, "Ring those up for you?"

"Yes, please," I said, relieved to have something to distract me.

During the transaction Alex remained silent. I pocketed my change, and then he said, "Let me buy you a drink."

Alarm bells went off in my head. "I don't think that's such a good idea -- "

"Coffee, then? Look, we need to talk."

Obviously I wouldn't be able to just shake him off. I nodded, then said, "How about the Thai place around the corner?"

"Sure."

Without even asking, he lifted my heavy parcel of books and followed me out of the store. From there we walked the remainder of the block, then turned down the side street where the Thai restaurant was located. I hadn't been there in person, of course, but it was about what I had expected -- small and barely serviceable, but I knew the food was good, and their iced coffee heavenly.

We placed our orders, and then after the waitress had gone, Alex folded his hands on the tabletop and looked at me expectantly. "So..."

What on earth could I possibly say? I knew I could never tell him the truth, but on the other hand, he obviously expected me to offer up some sort of explanation for my behavior of the past week.

Taking the coward's way out, I asked, "So you talked to Fiona?"

His eyes narrowed, but at least he seemed disinclined to call me out on that obvious red herring. "She rang me up a few days ago, frantic. You'd disappeared, she said, and nobody knew where you were. She wanted to know if I'd possibly heard from you." At that Alex paused, since the waitress returned with our iced coffees. Once we were alone again, he continued, "I told her that no, of course I hadn't, and why on earth would she think such a thing? Then she said she thought you were in some sort of trouble, and it was driving her frantic since no one knew what had happened to you, and since you'd left Manchester that perhaps you'd come to London. So yesterday she came down to get the key."

"Key?" I asked.

An odd little smile pulled at Alex's lips. "I still have a key, you know. After I moved out, you never took it back from me. Suppose you forgot." The hazel eyes met mine, slightly questioning.

What did he expect me to say -- that I'd never asked for it back because I'd hoped that one day he'd figure out what a mess he'd made of things and return? That wasn't even the truth. Sad to say, I'd probably just forgotten that he still had it. At the time, I'd only wanted to never have to see him or think about him again.

"I expect I had forgotten," I said coolly, and he flinched a little. Perhaps I was learning a thing or two from Severus. "So you gave her the key."

His mouth tightened. "Yes -- didn't see the harm in it. A little disconcerting to deal with Fiona in person, though -- she kept peering over my shoulder as if she expected to see you tied up in the sitting room of my flat."

The mental image made me want to laugh. Poor Fiona, though -- she'd always been fiercely protective of me, as if she thought I couldn't survive in the cruel world without her assistance. Who knows -- perhaps she was right.

"What did she want with the key, anyway?" I asked.

"Not sure. Maybe she thought you were the victim of foul play, and she'd find you inside the house. Or maybe she just thought you might have left some clue behind as to where you'd gone." Alex lifted his glass and drank some of his coffee, then added, "Why didn't you just leave a key with her, if you were going out of town for a while?"

I couldn't tell him that I didn't want anyone going near my house in case Voldemort or his minions might discover where I lived. Instead, I replied, "Oh, well -- I'd shut everything up, and taken care of everything that needed it. I suppose I didn't see any real reason."

For a few seconds Alex said nothing. Then he remarked, "You're really not going to tell me what's going on, are you?"

Even if I had wanted to confide in him, I knew I couldn't. Besides, he didn't need to know everything that had been happening to me. He'd given up that right when he'd walked out of my life two years before. "No, Alex," I said. "I'm not. I can't. We have to leave it at that."

A look of frustration passed over his features, but then he just shrugged. "I suppose I deserve that. Will you believe me if I tell you that I want to help you, if you'd let me?"

"I don't think there's anything you can do," I said sadly. The wistful note in his voice had shaken me a bit. Then something occurred to me, and I added, "Actually, there's one thing -- "

"What?"

"HBC. The vet's only paid up to the end of the week, and I don't know when I'm going to be able to take her back. Could you get her for me next weekend? I'd ask Fiona, but she's allergic."

His voice flat, Alex said, "The cat."

Belatedly I realized that he and HBC hadn't exactly been bosom buddies. Still, it couldn't be helped. At least he was familiar, and could be trusted to watch her until I could retrieve her one day. "Please, Alex?"

"Oh, all right." He managed a wry smile and added, "I suppose it's the least I can do. Can you give me the direction?"

So I pulled an old receipt from my wallet, dug a pen out of the recesses of my purse, and scribbled the address and name of the vet down on the scrap of paper. Alex took it, read the information, then folded up the receipt and stowed it in his wallet.

Somehow that little exchange had an air of finality about it, as if somewhere in my heart I knew I'd never be able to return to Manchester and rescue my cat from the vet. I managed to limp the conversation along a little further by asking about graduate school and his flat and any other commonplaces I could think of. I inquired as to why he was in that part of London at all, and he replied that he'd been searching for a hardbound set of Carl Jung's works and that a friend of a friend thought she'd spotted one here in the West End. We discussed Jung for a few minutes after that. Alex didn't bother to steer the conversation in a different direction; I think he could tell he wasn't going to get any more information from me.

Finally we were done with our coffees. I stood, then gathered up the heavy parcel that contained my books. "Thanks again, Alex. I appreciate you looking after HBC for me."

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I'm not going to see you again, am I?"

I couldn't bring myself to answer that question. Forcing a smile, I reached over and gave his hand a quick squeeze, then hurried out of the restaurant. I knew I couldn't really stop him from following me if he chose to do so, but when I paused at the street corner, I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. There was no sign of him, and I didn't know whether to be saddened or relieved.

But I needed to get back to the safety of my hotel room. I'd been out far too long; no doubt Severus would give me a good scolding if he found out about my extended excursion. Worrying about his reaction kept me from brooding over Alex's last words. _I'm not going to see you again, am I?_

I didn't want to think that my disappearance might turn out to be permanent.

* * *

The night wore on. Around eight I bribed one of the American students who was also staying in the hotel to run out and get me some fish and chips or possibly a pasty from the pub down the street. I knew better than to go out again, but by then I was heartily sick of the food from the places in the vicinity that delivered. The girl looked a little surprised that I would pay just as much as the actual food cost to have her bring it back to the hotel, but then she just shrugged and told me in nasal accents which sounded as if she must be from somewhere in the Northeast that what the heck -- every little bit counted.

As it turned out, she brought back a pair of absolutely heavenly Cornish pasties, along with a bottle of Guinness. "Not supposed to get it to go, but I sweet-talked the bartender," she told me in confiding accents.

I thanked her, and she waved a hand. "No prob -- sorry about your house arrest." And with that she was off, streaked dirty blonde hair bouncing against her back as she bounded down the hallway to rejoin her friends.

After that I closed the door and sat down to eat. Although I was hungry, I decided to leave one of the pasties for Severus -- no doubt Voldemort didn't provide for supper breaks, and it was very likely that he'd be in even more need of food than I whenever he did appear.

But the slow hours ticked by, and still nothing. The pasty sat in its brown paper wrapping as I finally gave up and went into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. At the very least I could go through the pretenses of preparing for bed, even though I knew the chances of my being able to fall asleep were roughly the same as Voldemort spontaneously combusting.

Instead, I waited in bed, wearing the faded David Bowie T-shirt I'd bought at the secondhand store, _Nine Coaches Waiting_ lying open in my lap. I'd long since given up on the television, although the shabby little radio on the bedside table helped relieve my solitude by emitting some tinny classical music. Outside I could hear the occasional horn or siren, along with the ever-present low-level murmur of traffic and crowds. Normally I would have found the sounds to be somewhat soothing -- if nothing else, they told me I wasn't completely alone, that I was surrounded by crowds of people. Unfortunately, none of them would be able to do a damn thing to help me if I were found by Voldemort or his Death Eaters.

I found it impossible to concentrate. After discovering that I had read the same sentence at least three times without comprehending it, I tossed the book aside and went to the window. Pushing the hideous striped curtain out of the way, I looked down at the street for a long moment. Why, I wasn't so sure -- after all, it wasn't as if I really expected that Severus would come striding along the sidewalk, black robes billowing behind him. Perhaps I only wanted to reassure myself that the sounds I heard were real, and not the phantom murmurs of my own brain.

But then I heard the sudden _crack!_ of a person Apparating. I turned to see Severus materialize in the center of the room and ran to him, heedless of the fact that I was wearing only that dodgy T-shirt and a pair of knickers. I was just about to throw my arms around him when something in his face stopped me, a look that seemed to turn the blood to ice in my veins. The only word I can think of to describe it is bleak. Yes, he looked bleak, like a mountain crag that's been worn by storm and the relentless wear of a thousand years.

"What's wrong?" I asked. Even as the words left my mouth, I wished I hadn't said them. Surely it had to be something terrible.

The black eyes met mine. I saw no warmth there, only a tremendous weariness, and a trace of the self-loathing I remembered from that meadow near Llanilar, when he'd told me of what he'd done in Voldemort's name, all those years ago.

"Your friend Fiona is dead," he said flatly.

For several seconds I just stared at him blankly. It was a simple declarative sentence -- why then did I have such a difficult time comprehending the meaning of those few words?

But then it finally sank in, and I could feel my heart begin to pound, a dull roar beginning in my ears even as my mind began to manufacture protests. No, he had to be mistaken -- he didn't even know Fiona -- it had to be someone else --

I managed to ask, "How do you know?"

Another man might have looked away. But Severus stared down into my face and replied, "Because I was there."

Again my brain seemed to working sluggishly, like an engine that was only firing on half its cylinders. "You were there?" I gasped. "Why didn't you stop it?"

"Because I couldn't," he said, his tone level -- to someone who didn't know him very well. I could hear the underlying tension in his voice, even as I saw the tightening of his jaw as he made his reply.

I said, "You couldn't."

"Perhaps you should sit down," he suggested.

"Why?" I flared. "Is that going to change the fact that apparently you were an accessory to murder?"

Something in his face went still and dead then, and I immediately wished I could have taken back the words. "No," he said harshly. "But I would suggest that you are in no state to hear this standing up."

Since I didn't know what else to do, I sat down on the edge of the bed, staring up at him as he faced me, still wearing the nondescript dark street clothes in which I'd first met him. Whatever he'd done, and wherever he'd gone, he'd needed to blend in with ordinary Muggle society to do it.

Without preamble, Severus said, "Rhys Davies had gotten your address, unfortunately. Mrs. Evans should really be more careful with her guest register. I had no choice but to accompany him to Manchester." He scowled, a deep line carving itself into the skin between his brows. "I thought it would be safe enough -- after all, you were long gone, and I hoped to find a way to keep Davies from pursuing any of your friends."

"Apparently not," I said, in a hard little voice that I didn't recognize as my own. My brain was still having a difficult time processing the fact that Fiona, my friend and champion, the girl who fussed over calories but kept chocolate in her desk drawer, who despaired of me ever finding someone but who thought she'd finally met Mr. Right, was dead.

His lips thinned. "We were searching your house, and then she walked in the front door. You might have told me she had a key."

"She didn't," I replied distantly. "Alex gave it to her."

A pause. "Alex?" Severus asked in ominous tones.

"Alex Worrell, my ex. I'd quite forgotten that he'd kept the spare key to my house, but he told me he'd given it to Fiona yesterday."

"He _told_ you -- when exactly did you speak to this Alex Worrell?"

Probably any of Severus' students would have quailed at the black note in his voice, but at that point I was beyond such small concerns as his displeasure. "A few hours ago. I bumped into him in the book shop down the street. Said he was looking for a set of Jung in hardback."

"Was he?"

I crossed my arms and stared up at Severus. "Yes, he was, and don't bother to task me for it, either. Nothing happened, except that he told me Fiona'd been worried sick, and that he'd given her the key, and -- " My words trailed off as I realized that it was all my fault. If I hadn't been so stupid as to leave Alex that bloody key...if I hadn't completely forgotten to ring Fiona up...if I'd never been born with these Godforsaken powers in the first place...

"Stop it," Severus said harshly, and I looked back at him, shocked out of my self-recriminations.

"Stop what?"

"Blaming yourself."

I didn't bother to ask him how he knew. We shared a bond, Severus and I, and I certainly wasn't trying to cover up my thoughts by means of Occlumency. God knows what I'd been broadcasting.

"If you must blame anyone," he went on, "blame Voldemort. He's the one motivating this comedy of errors. So then, Fiona had a key, which Alex gave her. She'd have been better off to keep her nose out of it, but I supposed she felt some sort of duty to check in on you. Bad luck for her, though. Davies wasn't gentle."

I shut my eyes then, saw again my aunt sprawled out on her rug, and imagined Fiona in the same position, only this time lying across the faded Persian carpet in my front room, her eyes open, mouth frozen in a rictus of terror.

"And you did nothing to stop him," I said.

"I couldn't, don't you understand?" For the first time Severus moved closer to me of his own accord, and took my hands in his. To my surprise, he knelt down on the floor in front of me so that our eyes would be roughly level. "I couldn't let one life -- no matter how dear that life might be to you -- lead me to destroy my cover, to allow Davies to expose me for the double agent I've been all along."

Cold logic that, and I didn't want to try to understand it. But beneath the pain, beneath the horror that my friend had died in such excruciating circumstances, came a calm realization that sometimes a person is forced to make choices that on the surface seem inhuman...until you look closer and realize that sometimes one individual must be sacrificed so that many more can live.

I didn't even know whether these thoughts were my own, or some sort of psychic spillover from Severus' mind. His hands gripped mine almost painfully, as if he were willing me to understand, to realize that if he could have saved Fiona, he would have.

"How did it happen?" I asked finally. "I think I deserve to know."

He didn't bother to protest or try to tell me that it was none of my concern. "Davies questioned her. He used the Cruciatus curse -- I haven't told you of it, but the spell causes unbearable pain, to the point where you feel as if you would lay open your soul in order for it to stop. Very effective in questioning." For a few seconds he paused, then continued, "The only problem was that your friend truly didn't know anything -- you hadn't told her where you'd gone, and she had no information beyond that. The lack of information infuriated Davies, and he kept at her until her heart finally gave out. Thankfully he was so overcome by his anger that he didn't stop to question her as to how she'd come by the key, or your friend Alex's life would also have been in danger."

The ache in my chest had become almost unbearable, as if I carried a lump of a dead star somewhere in my midsection, and all my strength and energy were being inexorably drawn into it. Perhaps it would have been better if I could have wept, but somehow I knew if I started I might never stop. Instead, I hardened my voice and asked, "So what do we do now?"

Very gently, Severus released my hands. He stood, staring down at me with an inscrutable expression. "I've thought on this a good deal," he said, "and I've come to only one conclusion." Again he paused, his gaze fixed on my face. "I'm afraid that the only way to solve our problem is for you to die."


	22. Chapter 22

Oof...this is getting harder and harder. I really don't like being cruel to my characters. I don't. But desperate times and all that... Thank you for all your wonderful reviews!

* * *

Twenty-Two

The thought had struck him with incongruous force as he stared down at the limp form of the dead girl, who lay sprawled across Celeste's faded Persian rug like a discarded rag doll. _So the only way to truly escape Voldemort is to go the one place he dare not follow...into death._

Snape had stood to one side of the front parlor, trying not to reveal any disgust or horror at the results of Rhys Davies' handiwork. Behind the man's friendly blue eyes and open countenance lay a spirit as sadistic as that of Bellatrix Lestrange, if somewhat better concealed under normal circumstances. The fair-haired girl had been dead the second she stepped inside the door. And Snape had been powerless to do anything to save her.

_So much death, so that one man...if you can even call him that...might live_, Snape had thought. _And yet perhaps I can turn death to my advantage. Surely if Voldemort thinks Celeste is dead, he will turn his energies in other directions._

During the grim business of disposing of the girl's body -- Snape managed to convince Davies that having the local constabulary swarming around Celeste's house would surely discourage her from ever returning, if indeed she meant to -- he had considered the problem, turning it over and over in his mind the way he would have worked at a particularly difficult Potions essay question back in his schoolboy days. And as always, it was a potion that presented the solution.

The fundamental problem of the Draught of Living Death was that it didn't truly mimic death. One could still detect respiration, if the victim were examined closely enough. However, the altered Draught Snape had observed in those unfortunate Muggles he'd cured a few days earlier at St. Mungo's provided the key. He'd been able to determine that they still lived, although with much greater difficulty than if they had been given the standard formula. But now that Snape knew how the potion had been changed, he thought he could refine it further, manipulate the proportions ever so slightly in order to bring about a true living death. His fingers itched to sort through his stores of ingredients, to begin the delicate task of refining such a risky concoction. First things first, however...

After they had lain the poor girl's broken body in an alleyway only a few streets from her flat (her direction having been determined from the identification in her wallet), Snape managed to part ways from Davies, saying that it was necessary for him to return to Hogwarts. The Welshman didn't bother to argue; no doubt he had been instructed not to interfere with Snape's comings and goings, as the Dark Lord still considered the Potions master's relationship with Dumbledore to be highly valuable. As much as Snape wanted to go directly to Celeste, he knew she was safe for the time being. Better that he should work out more of the details of his plan before broaching it to her.

He didn't want to admit to himself that he didn't know how to face her after standing by and watching as her friend was tortured to death...

The cool, moist air surrounding Hogwarts restored him somewhat. There was something about the fresh breezes which continually blew across the school's grounds that never failed to lift his spirits. Perhaps it was simply the thought of returning to the only place he had ever considered home.

At least this time Dumbledore was in residence, and listened to Snape's tale with an ever-increasing frown.

"A very bad business," the Headmaster said at last. "Voldemort's toll of innocents increases once more, I see."

Snape made no reply, but only stared down at his hands as they lay knotted in his lap, pale and somehow ineffectual-looking against the black sweep of his robes. If only he could have found some way to stop Davies --

"Severus." Dumbledore never raised his voice, but something in his tone made Snape look up. "We've all done things we aren't proud of, but you know in this case there simply wasn't anything you could have done to prevent this poor girl's death. Not if you intended to continue as one of Voldemort's trusted circle."

Perhaps that was true, but it did nothing to ease the sour taste of bile in his throat, or the sensation of impotent fury that still wanted to rise up and choke him. If Davies had known how close he had been to being on the receiving end of the Cruciatus curse himself...

"Very well," Snape said, his tone harsh. It had to be, to push its way past the constriction in his throat. "I'll make no apologies to you, Albus. But you can see how desperate our situation is. Celeste can't hide forever -- I can't conceal her indefinitely." He had to force himself to make that admission; it pained him to realize that he couldn't protect her for as long as necessary. "But I have an idea -- " Briefly he outlined his plan to alter the Draught of Living Death further, and to use it on Celeste. "It will have to be tested first, of course," he concluded. "I trust that Madam Pomfrey is still on the premises?"

"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "Although she was making noises about possibly going to Brighton soon."

"Then I'll get to work on the Draught immediately. Once it's ready to be tested, I'll contact Pomfrey to monitor the experiment."

Dumbledore raised a bushy white eyebrow. "And who is to be your test subject?"

Snape smiled thinly. "Why, myself, of course."

* * *

"You're absolutely sure, Severus?" asked Madam Pomfrey, crossing her arms and fixing him with one of her familiar no-nonsense stares.

"I wouldn't be much of a Potions master if I were afraid to take one of my own potions," Snape drawled.

She shot a dubious glance at the beaker of lilac-colored liquid he held. "Yes, but something so experimental -- "

"Only a small dose," he interrupted. "Duration no more than ten minutes. After that time, I should come out of it on my own. If not -- " he shrugged, in a gestures that seemed to say, _Do your worst..._

"Oh, very well," Madam Pomfrey said, her tone somewhat testy. "I suppose it's your own business if you kill yourself. You have the receipt, at least, so I know which ingredients I'm working with and in which proportions? No sense in giving you the wrong antidote just because I didn't know what I was dealing with."

Without comment, he fished a piece of parchment out of his pocket with his free hand and laid it down on the table next to which they stood. She picked it up, frowning as she read over its contents.

"Interesting," she said at last. "I don't see anything here that should kill you...I think...but it could get difficult if your heart decides to take exception to the combination of nightshade and wormwood."

"It will behave itself," Snape replied, although he felt the smallest stir of fear even as he said those words. During the past hour he had labored painstakingly over the potion, altering the proportions ever so slightly, and he thought he had gotten it just right...but there was only one true way to know for certain. Things could go wrong in potion-making all the time, which was why he had enlisted Madam Pomfrey to help with the experiment in the first place. "If not, I trust you will know what to do."

"Hmpf," was her only reply, but he thought he caught a glint of professional satisfaction in her pale blue eyes. "Then hand me the potion, and lie down, Professor."

They had been standing next to one of the beds in the Hospital Wing; during the summer holidays it was probably one of the least occupied places at Hogwarts. Feeling somewhat awkward, Snape did as Madam Pomfrey had instructed and stretched out on the narrow bed after letting her take the beaker which held the Draught.

"Ten minutes, you say." She frowned at the pale purple liquid inside the beaker. "Shouldn't this be clear?"

"In the unaltered version of the Draught, but not this one," Snape replied, feeling somewhat nettled. Was the woman presuming to question his potion-making skills?

Perhaps she had caught the note of irritation in his voice. Whatever the case, she made no further comment, but merely tipped the beaker against his lips and said, "Sweet dreams, Professor Snape."

And the world went black...

...only to return some time later, a wash of blurred light that slowly resolved itself into Poppy Pomfrey's face, which hovered worriedly scant inches from his own.

"...Severus?"

"I'm fine," he said, then attempted to sit up. To his surprise, his muscles failed to cooperate.

"I can see that," she replied tartly. "Don't bother -- you have some residual weakness from the potion. It should wear off soon. I'm making you some tea in the meantime."

"I'm sure that will do me worlds of good," Snape remarked.

"Well, I daresay it won't hurt, either." A lift of a sparse eyebrow. "So what was it like?"

_What was it like?_ he thought. _It was like...nothing. Like falling into a deep well._ Whether that was a spiritual approximation of death, he couldn't say. He'd certainly never harbored any hopes or fears of an afterlife; this world and its burdens were enough for him. Let the next world -- if there even were one -- take care of itself.

"Like falling asleep," he said shortly. "Nothing more."

Pomfrey appeared unconvinced. "Hmm."

What it felt like to him was of no concern. Of supreme importance was how he had looked to Madam Pomfrey. Other than the lingering weakness, Snape could detect no side effects from the potion. "Did I appear to be dead?" he demanded.

"As a doornail," she said cheerfully. "No detectable respiration, no heartbeat. Even your skin got cool. I'm not sure what you're trying to prove with this, Severus, but it does create a most convincing imitation of death."

From somewhere she produced a large cream-colored cup and saucer. After a bit of a struggle, Snape managed to sit himself upright against the pillows and take the tea from her. To his surprise, it tasted quite good, and he drank it quickly. The heat from the liquid seemed to spread through his body, coursing along his veins and bringing a wave of much-needed strength with it. He raised an eyebrow at Pomfrey.

"Ginseng," she replied to his unspoken question. "Not magic, perhaps, but it does give one a boost. I expect you should be able to walk about in a few minutes. I'd tell you to rest a while longer, but I can see you're eager to be gone."

As he was. Now that he knew the potion worked, Snape wanted to rush back to the dungeons and pour off enough to take to Celeste. To be sure, he still needed to work out the details of how precisely he would manage to have Voldemort see Celeste's supposedly dead body for himself and then spirit her away quickly enough to revive her safely. He knew, however, that he couldn't risk any plan which would require her to be knocked out for longer than an hour. Even ten minutes had been enough to leave him with some residual weakness; sixty would be a risk, especially for someone who weighed so much less than he, but too small a dose, and there could be a danger of Celeste waking prematurely.

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," he said stiffly, and then managed to raise himself from the bed. He set the cup and saucer down on the bedside table and left the room, eager to be gone.

Once back in the dungeons, Snape did not bother to pack his Muggle attire, which would normally have been his first task when preparing to spend some time with Celeste. But he planned to Apparate in and out of her hotel room without anyone else seeing him, and for what lay ahead he guessed it would be better to travel light. An idea had begun to tickle at the back of his brain, a way to both rid himself of Davies and deliver a falsely dead Celeste to Voldemort. It might work.

He'd left a full beaker of the intensified Draught on his worktable, and Snape gathered it up, dropping it into a bag of heavy dark canvas that he used sometimes when gathering potions supplies in the woods surrounding Hogwarts. Then he turned, only to see Dumbledore standing at the entrance to his workroom and surveying Snape with a somewhat wistful expression.

"Have you thought, Severus," the Headmaster began, "what you will do if you manage to fool Voldemort? Will Celeste be able to hide herself away so completely that no rumor of her abilities will once again get back to the Dark Lord?"

That was the thorny center of the problem. Snape knew that Celeste would try to keep her skills at Divination secret, but could she manage to do that indefinitely, surrounded by Muggles? Part of the reason wizard-kind held itself apart from the ordinary world was simply that fear of discovery; it was much less difficult to keep magic a secret if all those who possessed magical abilities simply had little, if anything, to do with Muggles.

For a long moment, Snape remained silent. Then he replied, "I'm sure Celeste will do what she must."

"And what of you, Severus?" Dumbledore asked in return. "Will you do what you must, no matter how much it might pain you?"

Scowling, Snape crossed his arms and glared back at the Headmaster. "What are you trying to say, Albus?"

Dumbledore adjusted a fold of his heavy velvet sleeve. "I needn't tell you the dangers of memory -- not you, a master of Occlumency. Do you think the girl truly has the skills to block all recollection of what has happened to her these past few weeks? And what of you? With everything you must conceal, can you continue to hide her? What if Voldemort somehow manages to see past your deceptions one day? Do you want to take that risk?"

These questions were asked in the mildest of tones, as if the Headmaster were simply inquiring whether Snape wanted sugar or milk in his tea. But the longer Snape considered them, the more doubt twisted through him, clamping down on muscles and gut alike. Oh, so far he had done an admirable job in blocking his true purpose from the Dark Lord, but there was always the risk that he could be discovered. In the past he had thought the only price he'd pay for that weakness would be his own miserable life, but now he had Celeste's life to think of as well.

"What then?" Snape asked harshly, after an uncomfortable pause. "Do you want me to say that I should Obliviate her, erase all memory of me -- and magic -- from her mind?"

"Not only that," Dumbledore said, sounding calm as ever. "But once you're done, you must allow me to do the same to you. It is the only way to be safe."

How could he allow Dumbledore to do that? How he could let the only happy memories he possessed be erased, removed, so that it would be as if he'd never known Celeste, never felt her lips against his, never experienced the warmth of her body as she lay next to him? Not only that, but the sound of her laugh, the quick green glint in her eyes when he said something that amused her, the graceful curve of her throat -- everything that made her the woman he had come to love?

He wanted to hold on to all those memories, keep them close. Even if he had to let her go for now, for both their sakes, surely he could safeguard all thoughts of her, barricade them behind some mental wall that the Dark Lord could never breach. There had to be some other way --

_But there isn't_, a small, calm voice from somewhere deep inside told him. _Not if you want her to be truly safe. Are you so selfish as to put your happiness ahead of her life?_

There was only one answer to that question.

The words felt as if they were being dragged out of him. "If you're certain that's the only way."

Those all-seeing blue eyes met his. "Aren't you?"

Snape looked down. "Yes," he muttered.

"I found something the other day," the Headmaster said, apparently apropos of nothing. "Not sure where it came from, but oddments do have a tendency to collect in my chambers." He fished around in some hidden pocket of his robes, then drew out a delicate gold ring set with a smooth, unfaceted stone of a deep wine color. "Most unusual properties -- whoever wears it has their magical powers completely blocked."

Not something a member of the wizard world would care to use, Snape reflected, unless their powers had become a danger to themselves or those around them. Unfortunately, that described Celeste all too well. "You want me to give it to Celeste," he said.

"It could come in handy," Dumbledore replied.

That was an understatement. Snape had worried over the best way to ensure that Celeste's powers stayed blocked; no doubt her mother had continually cast Charms on the girl to make sure her magical abilities never had a chance to manifest themselves, but of course he couldn't do that. Not if he really intended to remove himself from her life. "I'll make sure she wears it," he said. Exactly how, he wasn't quite sure, as Celeste had displayed a lack of personal adornment unusual in an attractive young woman, but he would figure that out when the time came. And perhaps somewhere along the line he would also be able to divine the best way to tell Celeste that the only way to save her life was for him to disappear from it forever.

Snape cleared his throat. "I should be going. Celeste and I have much to discuss."

The Headmaster gave him a small, sad smile. "Yes, I suppose you do," he replied.

* * *

"You want me to what?" Celeste demanded. She still sat on the edge of the bed, hair mussed, pale slender legs dangling from beneath that ridiculous T-shirt she wore.

Snape thought she had never looked more beautiful. Perhaps it was simply because he knew that very soon he wouldn't remember what she looked like, or who she even was.

"It's the only way," he said, forcing her to meet his gaze, as if staring into her eyes would somehow give him the eloquence he needed. "The potion is perfectly safe -- I've tried it myself."

"I'm not worried about the damn potion," she retorted. "It's everything else! Why on earth must every memory of our time together be erased?"

"People make mistakes," he said. "Even I do. So far none fatal, but that means very little. Sooner or later, everyone's luck runs out."

At that she glanced away from him. He saw her small white teeth worry at her bottom lip. Since she hadn't given him a ready reply to his last comment, Snape suspected that she had begun to run out of arguments. Lively and quick-tempered she might be, but Celeste was no fool. After the inevitable protests died down, she would see the cold logic that dictated their course of action.

"But it doesn't have to be forever, does it?" she asked at last, with the smallest waver to her voice. Her eyes looked suspiciously bright, but so far she hadn't wept, not even after learning that Fiona was dead. Not because she didn't care, Snape thought, but because she cared too much. A loss of control now could be deadly, and she was holding herself together as best she could.

"No," he said slowly. "Of course not. I can't say how long -- weeks, months...years, possibly. But once Voldemort is defeated, we would have no reason to hide any longer. The Headmaster should be able to restore our memories."

""Should'?" she repeated.

To that, Snape had no ready answer. He could surrender the most important of his memories to the Pensieve if necessary, but Celeste had no such recourse. He had to trust that Dumbledore would be able to retrieve her memories somehow. Such things had been done in the past, but not on such a scale.

"Nothing is a perfect certainty," Snape said. "But Dumbledore is the greatest wizard alive. You have to trust that he will be able to help you."

"You're asking me to trust someone I don't even know," Celeste replied. Then she lifted her shoulders, so slender and frail-seeming under the oversized T-shirt. "But you trust him, and I know that doesn't come easy to you. So I suppose I shall have to as well."

A weight he hadn't even realized had been resting on him seemed somehow to lift from his shoulders. For some reason, he had been expecting a great deal more argument from Celeste. Perhaps she was merely so weary of hiding, and so burdened with grief over the deaths of her friend and aunt, that the sort of oblivion he offered had its own kind of attraction. Better that than the notion that she simply didn't care as much for him as he did for her...

"That's the only way I can get through it, you know," she added.

His knees had begun to pain him, kneeling on the threadbare carpet as he had, and Snape stood. "What do you mean?"

"If I tell myself this is only temporary, I can bear it." Celeste rose to her feet as well, and gazed earnestly up into his face. "Because if I have to think that I might never see you again, I might as well be dead, too."

"Don't say that," Snape replied, his tone fierce. "Never say that." He wanted to gather her into his arms, pull her against him, but for the moment he held himself aloof from her. If he allowed his control to crack now, he might never recover. A sudden thought struck him. "Can't you see it? What comes next?"

A small line etched itself between her brows. "I've never been able to see my own future. All for the best, I suppose. There are probably some things one simply shouldn't know. But..." She trailed off, the frown deepening. "Perhaps I can see what's in your future." Without warning, she reached out and took his hand between both of hers. Her fingers felt very cold and fragile against his skin. She shut her eyes, appearing to concentrate deeply.

Then her hands tightened around his, the grip intensifying almost to the point of pain. Snape opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. He could stand a little discomfort.

Just as suddenly, Celeste let go of his hand. Her eyes opened, staring at him without focusing. A low moan escaped her lips. "Oh, God..."

"What?" Without thinking, he seized her by the arms. "What did you see?"

"I can't -- " Gasping, she shook her head. "I can't tell for sure -- it wasn't clear -- "

Snape couldn't say how, but somehow he knew she was lying. No doubt out of some instinct to protect him, but whatever she had seen, it hadn't been pleasant. Perhaps she had seen his death. The thought should have chilled him, but instead he felt only an overwhelming need to know what her vision had contained. "You saw all too well, Celeste," he said coldly. "What was it?"

His abrupt tone seemed to bring her back to herself, and she pulled away from him. He released her arms without comment.

"It's not your death, Severus, if that's what you're thinking," she said, lifting her chin a bit. Good. If she had recovered enough to give him that familiar flash of spirit, then it couldn't have been too awful.

"Then what?"

She moved away from him to sit down on the bed once again. "I can't -- I _won't_ tell you. If I did, it would change everything."

Snape had thought there could be no greater mental agony than the thought of parting from her. He'd been wrong -- standing here and staring down at her pale face, all the while knowing she had seen something she wouldn't reveal -- that was even worse.

"Celeste -- " he began, in warning tones.

"It's no good, Severus," she replied, sounding almost rueful. "Don't glower at me like that. Do you really want one of my last memories of you to be that frightful scowl?"

Probably not, but he wasn't about to let it go that easily. "So you'll tell me nothing?"

Celeste bit her lip. Then she said, "Only this. What you face now -- having to leave me, to erase all memory of me -- isn't the most difficult thing you will be asked to do. Just know that when the time comes, you must do it, because he asks."

"Do what?" he demanded, but she shook her head.

"That's all I'm going to say, Severus."

Frustrated, Snape turned from her and went to stand by the window. He drew one curtain aside slightly to survey the streets below but saw nothing unusual, just the normal crowds of Muggles who had finished one portion of their evening's entertainment and who were now in search of the next. He found that he hated them, hated their blundering complacency and mind-boggling ignorance. Useless, the whole lot of them, with their narrow view of the world and complete lack of magical ability.

Yet at the moment he would have happily traded places with any one of them...

"Severus."

He turned. Celeste stood very close, and looked up at him with pleading eyes.

"We have so little time left to us. Do you really want to waste it in useless argument?"

He wanted to say that it wasn't useless, not when she'd obviously seen some critical moment in his future, something he needed to know, but all protests seemed to fall away as he stared back down into her earnest face. All concerns evaporated as his body told him what he needed most right now.

Perhaps he wouldn't remember it after tomorrow, but he wanted to spend one last night in her arms.


	23. Chapter 23

And here we come to the end. I've finished two stories within the space of seven days, and although I like closure as much as the next person, I still find it hard to say good-bye to these characters...and all the wonderful readers who have followed along with me.

I do have a poll up in my LiveJournal as to what I should write next -- the link is in my profile. Although you can't vote in the poll if you're not signed into LJ, you can leave a comment with your preference if you don't have an LJ account (or don't want to set one up just to do this). I'll leave the poll up for about another week and then will start planning my next story based on which story idea wins.

* * *

Twenty-Three

The plan was simple enough: Celeste would return to her home, and Snape would then contact Davies to tell him that the girl they sought had come back to Manchester. And when the Death Eater showed up on the scene, Snape would hit him with the Killing Curse, administer the Draught to Celeste, and deliver her to Voldemort, sadly informing the Dark Lord that their supposed "Muggle" had powers of self-defense no one had suspected, and that she and Davies had died simultaneously. Very neat.

Of course, as with most plans, there were probably a hundred things that could go wrong with it, but Snape wouldn't let himself dwell on those. He had enough to occupy his mind without letting it run down those pathways.

At first Celeste had been reluctant to return to Manchester, but eventually Snape managed to convince her that it was for the best. "Better to keep Voldemort's focus there," he told her. "After this is done, you won't be returning, and if he has no way to connect you to anyplace except Manchester and Wales..."

After a moment she nodded, her face pale and grim. By that time it was late in the afternoon; she'd spent the morning withdrawing funds from the local branch of her bank so that she could transfer them into another account that had been set up under the new name she'd taken for herself. The rest of the day had been occupied with finding her someplace new to live.  
"Selena Jones," Celeste had said that morning as they discussed the plans for her future. "I thought that up for myself as my 'secret identity' back when I was in school. There was something romantic about having an alter ego, and it's close enough to my own name that it doesn't feel quite so strange. Is that odd of me?"

He'd lifted his shoulders. The name didn't matter, as long as it couldn't be traced to Celeste Jenkins...which of course it couldn't. The identification Celeste carried with her would be Charmed to carry the new name, as would all of the papers she still kept in her home in Manchester...school transcripts, medical records, anything else she might need to support a new identity in a new town.

"Of course we can't do much about the computer records, I suppose," she remarked. "But since those are notoriously unreliable, as long as I have the paperwork to back it all up, I think I should be all right." Her tone had been too deliberately cheery; Snape got the impression that she was trying to occupy herself with the minutiae so she wouldn't have to stop and think about what lay ahead for both of them.

After they'd taken care of as much as they could, Snape Disapparated the two of them back into Celeste's home in Manchester. They appeared in her kitchen; he couldn't recall if the drapes in the front room had been drawn or not, and had guessed it was better to Apparate into a room that couldn't be seen from the street.

Nothing seemed to have changed, although the place had a fusty, closed-up smell that caused Celeste to wrinkle her nose. "Makes me want to open the windows," she said, then added, after Snape gave her a warning look, "but of course I won't, Severus, so don't bother to glare at me like that."

Although her tone was light, Snape could see the tension in the delicate lines of her jaw, the wariness in her eyes. Somewhere in the depths of the previous night, he had awoken to hear her weeping silently her pillow. He'd reached out to her then, held her close, until once again their bodies joined and she clung to him with a despairing intensity that moved him more than any words could. And afterward he'd finally felt her body relax, her breathing smooth itself out into the deep rhythms of slumber, and felt glad that he'd been able to offer her some solace at least. He wished he could say the same for himself. Sleep had eluded him after that, and he lay wakeful through the night, worrying at the details of his plan, trying to find any weak points that Davies might exploit.

Even though Celeste had slept more than he, she looked tired as well. No help for it, though -- they must proceed.

"Go on to your room," Snape told her. "There's only one entrance, and I'll make sure to Apparate downstairs when I return with Davies. That way we can control his movements a little more closely."

She nodded. "Will you be very long?"

Difficult to say for certain. In his pocket Snape carried a two-way mirror; Davies had its mate. It was the easiest way for the two of them to keep in contact, although Snape took care to keep his carefully muffled so that the Death Eater couldn't inadvertently eavesdrop on his doings. As soon as he left Celeste, Snape planned to return to London and meet Davies there, then tell him that the girl he sought had been spotted back in Manchester. Then it was just a matter of getting the man to return to Celeste's home with him.

_And after that..._ Snape thought. _I'll put an end to this, the end that Davies deserves._ He'd already secreted the replacement wand he'd given Celeste in a hidden pocket in his over-robe. Obviously it wouldn't do to use his own wand to hit the Death Eater with the Killing Curse. It would have been even better to have the original wand she'd received from Ollivander, but that had been left behind with the rest of her belongings in the room she'd abandoned at Mrs. Evans' guest house.

"Not long, I hope," he replied, after a pause. "Go ahead and finish getting as much of your things together as you can manage, but make sure you leave no evidence of having done so."

Again she nodded, then stood on her tiptoes and gave him a quick, fierce kiss. "Be careful, Severus."

I_ always am_, he thought, but only reached out to touch her cheek briefly before he Disapparated, returning to a shabby little alleyway in Southwark that had served him well in the past. Once he was certain no one had noted his presence, he drew the two-way mirror from his pocket, and directed his next words to it. "Davies -- I think I've found her."

Within a few seconds, Snape saw the Death Eater's face appear in the somewhat scratched surface of the mirror. "You have? Where?"

"It appears she's returned to Manchester. Perhaps she really did just go on holiday."

Davies' blue eyes narrowed in suspicion at that comment, but then he appeared to shrug. "Makes no difference, if she's really returned. You're sure it was her?"

"Yes. I overheard one of the men at the local pub saying she'd just gotten back this morning." No doubt Davies wouldn't question that story -- the man spent a good deal of his time gathering information in a similar manner.

"Where are you?" the Death Eater inquired, seeming to squint as he tried to make out Snape's surroundings.

"In London," Snape replied immediately. "Meet me here, and then we can proceed to Manchester together."

This was the weakest part of his plan; Snape had no guarantee that Davies wouldn't immediately take off for Manchester and attempt to capture Celeste himself. However, Voldemort had instructed that the two of them should work together, and if Davies acted on his own, there was always the chance that the Dark Lord would call him out for his disobedience, even if the man actually did manage to bring the girl to him. Snape could only trust that Davies' fear of Voldemort would exceed his desire for personal gain.

After a pause, Davies said, "Right. Let me see where you are."

Snape couldn't allow any flicker of relief to cross his features, but he felt a slight slackening of the tension in his neck and shoulders as he lifted the mirror to give Davies a good look at the alley in which he stood. He thought it would be adequate enough to allow the Death Eater to Apparate there.

As it was, for only a few seconds after Snape had done so, Davies appeared in the alleyway, giving a furtive look in either direction before he straightened and lifted a ruddy eyebrow at the Potions master. "Real garden spot, Snape," he remarked.

"It suits my purposes," Snape replied smoothly. "Ready? You do recall the particulars of Miss Jenkins' front room?"

"Like it was my own," Davies said, with something of a smirk.

Snape didn't have time to interpret that expression, because immediately the Death Eater Disapparated, and Snape hastily followed suit. It wouldn't do to have Davies appear in Celeste's house too far in advance of him.

But when Snape materialized in Celeste's front parlor, he saw no evidence of the Welshman. Frowning, he turned to see if perhaps the man had instead Apparated in the hallway or foyer. Just as he began moving toward the front entry, he heard Celeste's scream from upstairs.

Cursing, he immediately Disapparated and reappeared upstairs in her bedroom, only to see her backed into a corner, with Davies advancing on her, wand out.

"No trouble, girl," the Death Eater said. "I don't want to hurt you -- we just need to talk."

Celeste's face looked white as death against the deep terra cotta color of the bedroom walls. However, Snape was relieved to see she had the sense to stay still, the only evidence that she had noted his arrival a quick flickering of her gaze in his direction.

"The way you talked to my friend Fiona?" she challenged.

"And how would you know about that?" Davies asked softly.

The Death Eater was so focused on Celeste that he apparently hadn't noticed Snape approaching from the rear. Snape already had Celeste's replacement wand out, the words of the Killing Curse clear in his mind. He hadn't uttered them for more than twenty years -- and had hoped he would never have to do so again -- but a black rage rose up in his mind as he saw Davies reach out toward Celeste, a murderous fury that this tool of the Dark Lord would dare to threaten the woman he loved. Good. Snape would need all that rage, all that hatred to do what must come next.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" he cried out.

A bolt of virulent absinthe-green light shot out from the wand, striking Davies square in the back. The man collapsed immediately into a messy heap on the ground, his own wand falling from a suddenly limp hand.

For a few seconds neither Snape nor Celeste moved. She stood there, back still pressed into the corner, as she stared down at the Death Eater's crumpled form. At last Snape slowly lowered his own wand.

Celeste seemed to find her voice. "Is he -- is he really dead?"

Snape stepped forward, then knelt next to Davies and turned him over. The man's light blue eyes bulged as they stared sightlessly up at him. Whatever pain he had felt, whatever horror he had experienced there at the last, Snape would never know for sure. All he did know was that he had yet another death added to his account. And yet, this time he hardly cared.

"Oh, yes," he replied. "That was the Killing Curse, the same one that was used to murder your aunt. There's no true way to defend against it." _Not that I gave Davies the opportunity_, Snape thought. Some might say what he had done was the work of a coward, but he couldn't help feeling that any man who would threaten an unarmed woman deserved to die a coward's death.

Again Celeste remained silent for the space of a few seconds. Then she said, "And he did kill Fiona, right?"

Snape nodded.

An expression he at first couldn't identify crossed over Celeste's features, simply because it was so alien to her normally sunny disposition. Then he realized it was a mixture of hatred and disgust. "Then I'm glad he's dead," she said at last.

Finally she stepped away from the wall, and moved toward Snape. He folded her into his arms, holding her close as she burrowed into his robes, her face pressed against his chest. "I was so frightened," she whispered. "He appeared, and you weren't there -- "

"We were supposed to Apparate together into the front room," Snape replied, his own arms tightening around her. "I don't know what he was thinking. Perhaps he only thought we would find you more quickly if we separated."

At first Celeste made no reply, but simply continued to cling to him. After a bit more time had passed, she stepped backward ever so slightly, and stared up into his face. He was relieved to see that at least she hadn't wept; better not to take her in front of Voldemort with any evidence of tears on her face -- not when he would have to convince the Dark Lord that it was Celeste who had managed to hit Davies with the Killing Curse.

She gave Snape a shaky smile. "Well, if that's the only thing to go wrong, then I expect we're doing all right, aren't we?"

"Most certainly." He reached out and took her hands in his. "That was only the first step, though. You know what comes next."

Without flinching, Celeste met his eyes. "Yes. Best to get it over with quickly, I expect."

Once again Snape found himself astonished by her strength. Even he quailed at the thought of what still lay ahead, but she seemed prepared to meet it chin up, resolve unbroken. And once again he found himself uttering a silent prayer to whatever forces directed the universe that he might somehow survive all this and meet the future with Celeste at his side.

Hands shaking a little, he gently relinquished his grip on her fingers, then reached inside his robe and drew out the flask that contained the altered Draught.

Celeste's eyes widened a little as she looked at it. "Well, it's a pretty color, at least," she said. "And that will really make me look as if I'm dead?"

"Yes. I've tested it on myself -- it's quite safe."

"As if you would give me anything that wasn't!"

What had he ever done to deserve such trust? And yet she did trust him, enough to take an unknown potion, enough to upheave her life once again on the chance that one day Voldemort would be vanquished and they could find one another somehow. He knew he loved her, but somehow his own love seemed a pale thing compared to the utter certainty and devotion that shone in her eyes as she gazed up at him. He couldn't fail her. Not now.

"There is no taste," he assured her, as she took the flask from him. "Drink it all down. You'll merely feel as if you're falling asleep."

"And then?" Calm as she looked, Snape noticed how her fingers tightened around the neck of the flask, the knuckles going bloodless with the movement.

"And then you'll wake an hour from now, in a new place, with a new name." Through some dedicated hours on the phone earlier in the day, Celeste had managed to secure herself a small flat in Birmingham. They had both decided it wise for her to lose herself in another large city. The money for the rent and deposit had already been wired over, and Celeste had requested that the landlord simply leave the key under the front mat for her. She'd used the excuse of not knowing exactly when she would make it into town and not wanting to trouble the landlord further, and fortunately he had accepted the story without further question.

"That doesn't sound too frightening," she replied. Moving quickly, as if not to lose her nerve, Celeste pulled the stopper from the flask and drank its contents. Before she had even finished, she sagged, and Snape caught her in his arms before she could collapse on the floor next to Davies. The flask slipped from her fingers and landed with a soft clank on the rug.

Snape hadn't thought she would feel so light, like a piece of thistledown in his arms. Very gently he laid her to rest on the carpet, then found a handkerchief in one of her bureau drawers and wiped the faint purple traces of the Draught from her lips. Then he retrieved Davies' wand, holding it with a fold of his over-robe so as not to leave any trace of his own fingerprints on it, and fired off another _Avada Kedavra!_ in the direction of the wardrobe. It impacted harmlessly in a shower of green sparks, but at least now it could be easily proven that the last spell to leave the Death Eater's wand had in fact been the Killing Curse.

Transporting the two of them would be difficult, but Snape didn't dare leave Davies behind. Mouth twisting in distaste, he managed to hook the dead man's belt around his right arm, and then lifted Celeste so that she drooped over his other shoulder like a small child who had passed out from exhaustion after a day of hard play. It would be difficult to Disapparate so burdened, but Snape hoped that his desperation would lend him strength. Murmuring the words of the spell under his breath, he turned to the right, fixing the image of the cold salon where Voldemort now held court firmly in his mind.

The room formed itself around him, the shabbily elegant chamber Snape visited sometimes in his nightmares. A chorus of shocked sounds met his ears, but Snape could only fix his attention on the pale shape in the carved chair of black walnut, the skeletal figure who slowly stood as he appeared to take in Snape's burden.

Davies' weight had cut off the circulation to his right arm, and Snape allowed the Death Eater's body to slide down onto the floor. Then he reached up and carefully gathered up Celeste's limp form, placing her on the threadbare Aubusson carpet that covered the floor.

"What is this?" Voldemort asked at last, his tone quiet venom.

Snape straightened, ignoring the whispers of the Death Eaters who clustered about the room. Only thoughts of anger that he'd been unable to bring the Dark Lord the prize he desired were allowed to fill his mind. He knew he couldn't let Voldemort begin to guess at the despair and fear he wanted to feel at seeing Celeste lying as if dead at the Dark Lord's feet.

Coldly, Snape replied, "The consequences of not allowing me to carry out this pursuit myself, my lord."

The blood-tinted eyes narrowed. "Explain yourself, Severus."

"That," Snape continued, pointing with disdain at Celeste's deathlike form, "is the girl you sought. I found her, and informed Davies of her whereabouts, since you had instructed me to work together with him. Unfortunately, Davies decided to act on his own, and tried to procure the girl himself. I came on the scene to late to stop him, but as you can see, he obviously found out for himself that the girl was no Muggle." Carefully wrapping a bit of his robe around his fingers first, Snape then reached inside the wand pocket it contained and pulled out both Celeste's and Davies' wands. "You might want to inspect these."

Lipless mouth tight with fury, Voldemort snatched the wands from Snape's grasp and turned them over in his pale, skeletal fingers. Then he hissed, "_Priori incantato!_"

Immediately, pale ghost mages of the Killing Curse erupted from both wands, causing a murmur of shock to move through the watching Death Eaters, until they realized that the echoes of the spells were merely that, and without effect.

"So," Voldemort said, in tones so neutral that one would think he cared little about seeing both the girl he had sought and one of his followers dead at his feet...unless one happened to catch of glimpse of the tiny spark of red fury that burned at the back of his eyes, "you're saying that they killed one another?"

"I came on the scene a fraction of a second too late, my lord," Snape said. In his mind's eye he could see the still forms of Celeste and Davies lying prone on the faded Persian rug in her bedroom, their wands still clasped in lifeless hands. The image of course was completely false, but Voldemort didn't know that. "But yes, that is what appeared to have happened. Somehow the girl had gotten herself some kind of training. Perhaps the parents, in an attempt to give her some sort of protection." Further than that, Snape dared not go. He knew that Voldemort was aware of who Celeste's parents were by now, but although the Dark Lord knew that she had been hidden all these years, of course he would have no idea what sort of magical training she'd received -- if any.

Suddenly Voldemort knelt, and laid his cadaverous cheek against Celeste's breast. It took all of Snape's will to keep himself from striding forward and tearing the Dark Lord away. How dare he touch her like that...

But obviously the dark wizard had only wished to ascertain whether she truly lived. After a few seconds he lifted his head, then placed a pale hand against Celeste's mouth. He waited a moment more, and then a grimace of unspeakable rage crossed over his features. "To be denied my prize, after all this!" Voldemort stood, face still twisted with fury. "Let us hope you do not come to regret your blundering in this matter."

Snape bowed his head and let his mind fill with anger toward Davies for botching the job so badly, for seeking to seize all the glory for himself. "My apologies, my lord," he said, and made no effort to hide the contempt in his voice. "I believe I did say that I preferred to work alone -- "

"Enough!" Voldemort's voice cracked like a bolt of lightning. "Let us not begin to assign blame, Severus, or you may wish you never started down that path." Still fuming, he stared down at Celeste, lip curled in disgust. "You have no idea what her loss has cost me."

"It is a regrettable state of affairs," Snape agreed.

Narrow chest heaving, Voldemort lifted his gaze from Celeste's inert form and fastened the Potions master with a slit-eyed glare. "Since you could not bring her to me alive, I will leave it to you to clean up this mess."

Snape couldn't allow himself to feel relief at the Dark Lord's words. "I am here to serve, my lord," he said.

"Dispose of that," Voldemort said, pointing at Celeste's body. "Make sure she can never be traced back to me."

"Of course, my lord." Kneeling down, Snape gathered Celeste up in his arms, and then stood. A faint drift of her herbal shampoo reached his nostrils, an incongruous note in the overall dankness of his surroundings. "I'm thinking a back alley in London -- her identification gone -- "

The Dark Lord waved a pale hand. "Whatever is necessary to make the Muggles think she met her end there. You will take care of the details...and make sure you don't fail me this time, Severus."

A thin trickle of dread inched its way down Snape's spine. Surely any moment Voldemort would demand to inspect Celeste again, would tear her from his arms and denounce Snape for his duplicity. But a second passed, and then another...and he began to think they might survive this after all.

Perhaps his hesitation hadn't been that noticeable. Snape bowed his head again, and said, "I will take care of it immediately, my lord." Still clutching Celeste against his chest, he Disapparated at once, going first to the shabby Southwark alleyway where he had met up with Davies. If Voldemort had meant to send someone to follow him, better that he should go here, to the exact sort of place that he had told the Dark Lord he would dispose of the girl's body. But no one followed, and Snape crouched there in the gloomy half-light of approaching dusk for the space of a few moments before he realized that apparently they had made their escape without any sign of pursuit.

By this time a little more than a half-hour had elapsed since Celeste drank the Draught, and he guessed that she had at least a half-hour more before she regained consciousness. Staggering about London with a comatose girl in his arms would certainly raise suspicion, so he immediately Disapparated to someplace he thought would be safe -- the little glen above Llanilar where he had first confessed his dark past to Celeste.

It was growing cold; he settled himself down against the low stone wall that had perhaps been a fortification a thousand years past. Moving with care, even though he knew he could do nothing to wake her prematurely, Snape wrapped a section of his over-robe around her, sheltering her against the cool air and the coming of night. Her face looked very pale against the black fabric, and he felt a sudden rush of tenderness as unexpected as it was painful. If only he could stay with her here forever, in this fold of the Welsh hills, where the air smelled of pine and a faint tang of salt. But as much as he wanted this moment to last an eternity, with the woman he loved a welcome weight against his chest, he knew they had so very little time left to one another.

She woke slowly, consciousness returning to her features like the gradual light of a winter dawn. The dark lashes fluttered, then lifted. Her eyes opened, the deep green appearing almost black in the gloaming. "So I'm not dead?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Snape's arms tightened around her. "No, you're not dead...although Voldemort certainly thinks you are."

Her mouth curved in the faintest of smiles. "So we did it?"

_Yes, we did_, he thought. _But what kind of victory is it, when I still may lose you forever?  
_

He said nothing of that, however, but instead added, "You will feel faint for a time. But we're safe here...as soon as you can stand, we can go on to Birmingham."

"Birmingham," she murmured, and then her lips tightened. Obviously she was as reluctant to go on with the last step of their plan as he was.

But at length she informed him that she thought she could stand, and he helped her to her feet. Her hand tightened on his wrist as she sought her balance, but after a moment she was able to let go, and force her limbs to carry her a few feet away from him as she tested her uncertain legs.

Then a Disapparation once again, to the shadows of the bustling New Street station in Birmingham. It was the only landmark in the city that Snape recognized and could Apparate nearby; besides, from there it was easy enough to hail a cab and give the driver the direction for Celeste's new flat. Although the cabbie gave Snape's robes an odd look, he accepted the fare without too many questions.

The ride took approximately fifteen minutes, during which Celeste sat silently in the back seat next to Snape, her hand clasped tightly in his. Neither one of them dared say anything in front of the cab driver, and it was with a feeling of relief that Snape alighted from the shabby old sedan and helped Celeste out of the back.

As promised, the key had been hidden beneath the doormat; Celeste retrieved it and let them both into the bottom flat that she had rented for herself.

It had been let furnished, although that seemed a grand term for the shabby couch, side table, and wooden chair he spotted in the tiny front room. Celeste flicked on a light after pausing to make sure that the drapes were pulled shut.

"Well," she said, after pausing to survey the dreary surroundings, "I suppose it will look much better after it's been given a good coat of paint."

How could he leave her here, to this drab little flat in a shabby neighborhood that seemed all too similar to the working-class surroundings where he himself had grown to boyhood? And yet...how could he not?

"I'll be fine, Severus," Celeste said, and miraculously produced a smile. "Besides you still have to bring me my things from Manchester." The smile grew a little tight around the edges, and she added, "And don't forget the little red book in my purse. I left it on the floor next to the nightstand when we came back from London."

Snape had thought it too risky for Celeste to return to her home, but he could be in and out in literally the blink of an eye. Just that one precious box of papers and personal effects, and she would have enough to continue her new life here in Birmingham.  
"Of course," he said. "Settle yourself as best you can, and I'll return in a few minutes."

"I'll be waiting," she replied, and smiled again.

_Yes_, he thought. _But for how long?_

There being no answer to that, Snape merely Disapparated to Celeste's bedroom in her abandoned house in Manchester. He saw little evidence of the confrontation with Davies; after all, the beauty (or horror) of the Killing Curse was that it left no trace behind...save for the body of the person it slaughtered. The abandoned flask that had held the Draught still lay on the carpet where Celeste had dropped it, and Snape knelt and gathered it up. It would never have done to leave that behind.

The box with Celeste's papers had been hidden under the tall bed, safely concealed by a hanging bed skirt of embroidered linen. He drew it out, then whispered the Charm that would alter those papers forever. All mention of Celeste Jenkins would be magically transformed to Selena Jones. He hoped it would be enough to protect her.

As she had told him, Snape found Celeste's bulky brown suede bag on the floor next to her nightstand. He gathered the whole thing up, feeling vaguely ridiculous. But it had things she needed, as well as her newly bespelled identification, and he knew he couldn't leave it behind. Then he fixed the image of her new flat in his mind, and left the house in Manchester behind.

In the brief time he had been gone, Celeste had managed to unearth a dodgy-looking teakettle of scratched enamel and a pair of chipped cups. "I thought some tea might do us some good," she said, her tone too bright, too cheerful.

Frankly, Snape thought that tea was quite possibly the last thing he needed right now, but he knew better than to argue with her. Without comment, he set the box of papers on the floor next to the stove, then placed her bag on the kitchen table.

"Celeste," he said quietly.

She looked up then, her hands resting on the ancient mugs she had found. For a moment her eyes met his, and then she said, "No."

"You know we must," he replied. Was that voice his, so calm, so cold?

Her eyes looked enormous in her pale face. "I thought I could do this, but now..." She glanced away, the muscles in her throat working.

"You can. You've survived everything else. And once -- once I'm done, you won't remember any of this. It won't hurt anymore." _And that's the worst of the thing_, he thought viciously, _that we should suffer so, and have nothing to show for it._

For the longest moment she said nothing. Snape waited, watching the anguish tear at her lovely face. He knew he didn't dare speak, for fear of betraying his own agony. Then she swallowed, and reached inside her bag, drawing out a smallish book covered in dark red leather. "I want you to have this," she said.

Mystified, he took the volume from her. "What is it?" he asked.

"My journal. I've written down everything that's happened to me. All my memories of you -- they're all in there. I know you must take them from my mind, but if I know they're safe, then I can do this. Promise me you'll keep them safe." Her eyes sought his, obviously looking for some reassurance.

"I'll give it to Dumbledore," Snape told her. "I know he'll look after it for me."

Some unreadable emotion crossed Celeste's features at the mention of the Headmaster, but after a moment she nodded. "All right, then," she said, and took a breath. "What must I do?"

"Let's go back to the front room," Snape replied, marveling that he could sound so calm. "Better for you to lie down on the couch. Then you'll simply awake some time from now, and you'll remember nothing. Nothing except that you've just moved here to Birmingham to attend the university, and are starting your life over after leaving a failed relationship." This was the scenario they'd agreed upon; actually, it wasn't that far from the truth, was it? "But you'll still be you, only with a different name, and a disinclination to discuss your past. And this," he added, reaching into the left pocket of his frock coat and pulling out the ring Dumbledore had given him. "Wear this always -- it will block your magic, keep you from seeing the future."

Instead of taking the ring from him, Celeste extended her left hand. "Could you -- could you put it on me? It's foolish, I know, but somehow it would feel better to have you place it on my hand."

Snape gave her a puzzled nod, then slipped the small band of garnet-studded gold on her ring finger. It was something he had never imagined himself doing; he had never thought he'd find a woman who would want to spend her life with him. He cursed the universe for giving him such a gift, only to take it back from him in the end.

After he'd placed the ring on her finger, Celeste clenched that hand into a fist. "It feels odd," she said, after a brief pause. "As if I've suddenly lost part of my hearing, or sight."

His own abilities had been a part of him for long that Snape couldn't begin to think how it might feel to have them suddenly stolen away. But it was necessary for her safety, so he said only, "You will get used to it," and led her into the front room, where she lay down on the dingy couch.

Celeste settled herself against the cushion, then stared up into Snape's face. "Kiss me, Severus," she said quietly. "Kiss me one last time."

So he did, bending down to press his mouth against hers in one final despairing caress, his entire body protesting the moment he pulled away at last. Celeste's eyes shut, and Snape then whispered the words of the Obliviation spell, those cursed syllables that would erase every memory, every touch, every word they had ever exchanged. And then he staggered away, breath coming ragged, every step an agony, until he summoned the strength to Disapparate one last time, and he emerged on the windswept road that faced Hogwarts' front gates.

He found he still clutched the journal Celeste had given him. Although by this time night had fallen, a cold full moon blazed down upon him, illuminating the scene with its harsh light. He opened the book at random and looked down at Celeste's strong yet feminine handwriting. The words blazed up at him:

_I met the most extraordinary man today..._

The pain hit him like a breaker hitting a drowning man. Snape almost staggered, then held himself still and made himself take in deep swallows of the cool night air. He had to bear it. He must. He had to let her go. Never mind that ahead lay only danger and long days of hunted despair. At least she was safe. He had to believe that, or this all would have been for naught.

Besides, very soon the pain would be gone. He would go to Dumbledore, and hand over the journal for safekeeping, and let the Headmaster give him the blessed oblivion he so desperately needed. Only a few more moments of pain, and then he would forget her as well...forget that for a time he'd been loved in a way he'd never dreamed he could. Better to forget, if he couldn't have her.

Snape straightened then, lifting his head to the uncaring moon and the cold wind. Then he turned, and began the long walk up to Hogwarts.


	24. Epilogue

At last we come to the very end. Even now this story is just a little bit AU, given the revelations regarding Snape and Lily in DH, but not overly so. People do move on many times…at least, if they're given the opportunity to do so. This is the epilogue that fits in with canon, so of course there are DH spoilers within. I do plan to write my "happy ending" epilogue in the next few days; I'll post in my LiveJournal (I'm christinex1001 over there…the link's in my profile), so check it out if you'd like to see how I wanted this story to really end. I need to give myself a little time to write the alternate; I cried enough as I was writing this one. 

_Though lovers be lost love shall not;  
And death shall have no dominion._

—Dylan Thomas

* * *

Epilogue

Minerva McGonagall surveyed the cluttered contents of Dumbledore's study and sighed. So many matters to attend to, so many wrongs that had to be righted somehow. In the frenzy of rebuilding and cleansing that had followed the Battle for Hogwarts, she had managed to avoid this one last, unwelcome task. Arguments had been made that the school couldn't possibly be ready for the fall term, but the remaining staff and most of the wizarding world had agreed that there were very few things which would more quickly restore a sense of normality than the rebuilding of Hogwarts.

There had been almost unanimous agreement that McGonagall should take over the post of Headmistress, and she had not had the strength to demur. Still, inwardly she looked on her newfound position as a temporary situation, one which would change when someone more suitable could be found. Who that person might be, she couldn't hazard a guess. She only knew that she felt herself unworthy of such an exalted position. The battle and recognition of loss that had followed had drained her, and many times she found all she really longed to do was rest. That, however, was out of the question, and she soldiered on as best she could, thinking that perhaps the return of the students in September would lend her some much-needed strength. The start of term always invigorated her, with its promise of new talent and excited fresh faces, and she hoped the familiar rhythms of the school year would work their same magic on her this time around.

She had left Dumbledore's office until last, saying that her own quarters served her quite well and that there was no need to immediately relocate, especially since there were far more pressing matters to attend to. But with so many of the wizarding world and so many of the magical creatures who lived in Hogwarts and its environs all lending a helping hand in the school's rebuilding, one by one all those issues had been addressed. It fell to her now, as Dumbledore's successor, to take stock of his office, to inventory the items there and keep those as she thought she might need and relegate the rest to storage. A Headmaster's things were never thrown away, of course, but merely warehoused against future need.

The house-elves had already left her a stack of boxes, all spelled so that their contents would be neatly lettered on the side once they were filled. She wondered briefly if she placed some of Dumbledore's mysterious instruments inside whether she would at last know their true purpose. But it seemed somehow sacrilegious to remove any of the delicate, glistening mechanisms, and she decided to leave those for last. Perhaps she would just allow them to remain where they were. There was something soothing about their soft whirring, about the tiny puffs of smoke they let out at regular intervals.

The high bookshelves seemed equally daunting, although she dutifully stepped closer to survey the titles. These, too, she would leave undisturbed, save for adding certain volumes from her own collection. On the top shelf were a series of unmarked leather-bound books; she pulled one down at random and saw that it was a scrapbook of some sort, filled with photos of long-departed students who cheerily grinned and waved from the pages. Next to it was another scrapbook filled with cuttings from _The Prophet_, most with pithy commentary scribbled in the margins, all in Dumbledore's spidery hand. Suppressing a smile, McGonagall returned the book to its place on the shelf and turned. Then she spied the black cabinet off in the corner, and her smile faded as she recognized the piece of furniture that held Dumbledore's Pensieve and the memories he had collected.

Those she didn't know what to do with, although she knew the Pensieve had certainly proved useful on several occasions. Still, it felt odd to be holding on to memories that had not been entrusted directly to her care, and she decided that those at least could be boxed up and put in storage for now.

All of the small bottles had been clearly labeled with names and dates. Some of the names she recognized, but many were unfamiliar to her. But she handled all of them with delicate care, uttering a modified version of the Cushioning Charm as she did so in order for them to rest safely in the box. The Pensieve itself she set on a small table so as to keep it out of the way as she worked.

At the very back of the cupboard was a series of smaller black bottles, twenty in number, all with the cryptic legend "SS 96." McGonagall picked one of them up and looked at it, eyes narrowed; the handwriting was unmistakably Dumbledore's. Quite clearly they were initials, rather than a full name, but why the Headmaster had thought these memories needed the simple subterfuge, she wasn't sure. Whose memories would have needed that extra protection?

She almost laughed at herself as the answer came to her. Really, she must be slowing down in her later years. Whose could they be, but Severus Snape's? At the thought of the departed Potions master, the look of grim humor on her face abruptly faded.

_Poor Severus_, she thought then. Certainly she had had her own moments when she despised him, had even found herself hating him in the aftermath of Dumbledore's death, although she had tried to tell herself that harboring such emotions would not bring the Headmaster back. Then again, Snape had done little to endear himself to those around him, had made himself brittle and caustic and cruel, all the while hiding a secret so deep that no one had guessed at it, not even Voldemort. At the thought of how the erstwhile Potions master had died, her throat seemed to close up, and she blinked away the useless tears. Weeping would bring no one back, and she could only hope that the poor man had finally found peace somewhere far beyond this world.

Would it be intruding, to see what these small black bottles held, what memories he thought were so dangerous or painful or otherwise unwanted that he had given them over to the Headmaster for safekeeping? And yet, he had obviously wanted them saved, or they would not be here at all.

_Just one_, she told herself, and selected a bottle at random, the one numbered "5." Then she pulled out the stopper, and poured the gleaming, silvery fluid into the Pensieve. Taking a breath, she lowered her face into Snape's memory.

Damp, cool air, the hum of voices and automobiles and, somewhere, the bass pounding of someone's stereo. Muggle territory, then, although McGonagall did not recognize the street, which appeared to have a mix of shops and pubs and neat houses in rows. What could have led Professor Snape, who had always evinced a true disdain for the nonmagical world, to such a place?

She received her second shock when she realized Snape wore plain, dark Muggle clothing, not his customary robes. Since she couldn't recall a time since he had joined the staff when he hadn't worn those robes, it was disconcerting -- to say the least -- to see him in such nondescript garb. The lank black hair was the same, however, as was the forbidding frown he wore as he marched down the sidewalk, not bothering to give those with whom he shared the streets a second glance. It was clear that he had a particular destination in mind.

He approached a house in the center of the row, a neat little place with a green-painted door and flowers blooming in window boxes that fronted the bay windows. Without hesitation, he raised his hand and knocked.

A moment passed without an answer, and Snape had raised his hand to knock once again when all of a sudden the door opened and a very pretty, if somewhat untidy-looking, young woman peered out.

"Oh," she said, in distinctly Northern accents, "it's you."

With his customary insouciance, Snape asked if he could speak to the young woman, who appeared to allow him into her house with some reluctance. McGonagall watched in increasing bemusement as Snape discussed the young woman's "powers" with her -- since the Transfigurations professor had not seen the memory which held their first meeting, she deduced something extraordinary must have happened to attract Snape's attention. Then the conversation went on into even more amazing revelations, as the young woman -- who seemed to be named Celeste Jenkins -- apparently allowed Snape into her mind, where he saw…what? Evidence that Celeste was no Muggle, as far as McGonagall could tell. She felt the flare of pain just as the memory-Snape did, and she jerked her head up out of the Pensieve, breathing in quick gasps as the familiar surroundings of Dumbledore's study fell into place around her.

McGonagall gripped the edge of the table which held the Pensieve in order to steady herself. So somehow Snape had discovered a young woman in possession of certain powers, a woman who for some reason had never been raised in the wizarding world. Interesting, but she still couldn't see why Snape felt the need to have these memories hidden away. Certainly they were no more dangerous than countless others he carried around with him.

Then again, she had only seen one piece of a larger story. There was more going on here than she could catch from that single memory, and although she had promised herself she would look at only one, it seemed that closer examination was necessary. So she grasped the bottle marked "1," poured it into the Pensieve, and went back into Snape's memories.

The story that unfolded as she moved from bottle to bottle was as strange as it was fascinating, all the more so because McGonagall saw in the memories a side of the Potions master she had never witnessed before, a man who had, against his better judgment, allowed feelings to develop for the lovely young woman whom Dumbledore had entrusted to Snape's charge. Certain memories were too private, and McGonagall withdrew as soon as she realized what they contained, but by the end, as she saw the Potions master lift his head against the cold wind and walk resolutely up toward the school, her heart ached, both for him and for the woman he had left behind. Now he was gone, and Celeste would never know what had become of him.

McGonagall lifted her face one final time from the Pensieve, only to find her cheeks wet with tears. The terrible cruelty of it all tore at her. True, he had found isolated moments of beauty and love with Celeste Jenkins, but those had been all too few, and in the end he had had to give them up, hand them over to Dumbledore's safekeeping. Celeste had known their cause was probably hopeless, McGonagall realized. The girl had seen, in that one shared moment in the shabby hotel room in London, what Dumbledore's fate would be, and still she had allowed Snape to Obliviate her. Now all that was left of their story were these scattered memories, and the journal she had handed to Snape at the last.

The journal! McGonagall started, realization coursing through her like an electric current. Surely it fell to her now, as Headmistress of Hogwarts, to locate Celeste's journal and return it to the young woman. Surely she deserved that much, even if the man she had loved was gone forever. She deserved to know the truth of things.

But where would Dumbledore have hidden it? She went over to his desk and began pawing through the drawers, but she found nothing that remotely resembled the slim leather-bound book she sought. Loose parchment, and broken quills, and half-eaten bags of sweets, and what looked like the remains of a few confiscated Skiving Snackboxes, but nothing else. Perhaps a hidden compartment, or a spelled chamber somewhere within the office? But if that were the case, would she even be able to break one of Dumbledore's enchantments?

She ran her hands over the walls, seeking the hidden charge that signaled a Charm had been used, but found nothing. Nor was there anything detectable beyond the office in Dumbledore's sleeping chamber. Feeling a bit wild, McGonagall returned to the main office and stared at the bookcase, at its rows of leather in various shades and hues with their printing in gold and silver and bronze on the spine. Then her gaze moved upward, to the shelf which held the scrapbooks she had noticed previously. One seemed smaller and thinner than the others, its slender spine of dark red leather barely peeping out between two ostentatious purple-backed volumes.

"_Accio_ journal!" she said, not bothering to draw out her wand. Immediately the little book sailed off the shelf and into her waiting hand.

_The "purloined letter" trick, Albus?_ she thought. What better way to hide something than in plain sight? She would have had no idea what she was looking for if she hadn't witnessed that last wrenching scene between Snape and Celeste.

Hands trembling a little, McGonagall opened the journal, scanning quickly for anything that looked helpful. Several passages she stopped to read in more depth, thinking she might find a clue. But although she knew Celeste had been hidden in Birmingham and had taken on the alias of "Selena Jones," McGonagall had very little else to go on. She had a vague idea that Muggles had books where you could look up their direction; perhaps she could ask Arthur Weasley for advice.

She came to the last page and flipped it over, seeing only a blank sheet and the facing endpaper. Then her gaze sharpened as she noted some tiny characters, much smaller than Celeste's normal handwriting, block printed in the gutter as it curved into the spine: _26 Edgehill Road_.

Could it really be as simple as that? Perhaps Celeste, knowing Dumbledore would not be around to restore hers or Snape's memories, had written down her address in the hope that perhaps one day Severus would see it.

Another hope dashed, as so many had been in the War, but McGonagall knew what she must do. She had not ventured openly into the Muggle world for some time, but this was a task she must undertake as Dumbledore's heir. Besides, she owed Professor Snape that much. It would not bring him back, nor would it make up for the bitter feelings she had shown him, but at least in giving the journal to Celeste McGonagall could begin to find some sort of absolution.

With a sigh, she left the Headmaster's office and returned to her own chambers. Somewhere hidden within the depths of her wardrobe was an old set of Muggle clothing. She could only hope that it was not too much out of date….

* * *

In the bright sunlight, the street looked somehow even shabbier than it had in Snape's memories. But the stoop at number 26 Edgehill Road was swept spotlessly clean, and a pot with bright geraniums stood guard at the front door. A mat of woven coir printed with more flowers sat directly in front of that door. 

Feeling an odd sense of _déjà vu_, even though this door was painted dull brown and not bright green, McGonagall lifted her hand to knock. Across the street, an older man shuffled out onto his own front step, retrieved his newspaper, and gave her an odd look. She smoothed down the skirt of her paisley dress and hoped it wasn't too dreadfully out of place.

Then the door opened, and McGonagall found herself staring into Celeste Jenkins' wide dark-green eyes. The young woman's eyebrows lifted, and she said, "Yes?"

McGonagall opened her mouth, began, "Cele -- " then paused and amended, "Selena Jones?"

"Yes?" Celeste repeated, looking more puzzled than ever.

"I am an old friend of your parents," McGonagall went on, using the lie she hoped would gain her entry to Celeste's flat. "When I heard you were living in Birmingham, I knew I would have to come for a visit."

"A friend of my parents?" The door opened an inch more, but Celeste still appeared wary. "I didn't know they had any friends in Birmingham."

"They didn't," McGonagall replied. "My name is Mrs. McGonagall, and I'm originally from Aberdeen. But I lived for a time in Carnforth, and that is where I made their acquaintance."

The mention of the obscure little Lancashire town where Celeste had spent her early years seemed to mollify her; she produced a smile and said, "Do come in, Mrs. McGonagall. Your timing is wonderful, actually -- I just brewed a pot of tea. Would you like some?"

"Very much, thank you," responded McGonagall, following Celeste into the small front room.

The last time McGonagall had seen the chamber had been in Snape's memories, and it was clear that in the intervening two years Celeste had done what she could do improve the place. The walls had been painted a soft sage green, and curtains of striped chintz hung from the window. The furniture was obviously secondhand, but it looked as if it was of fairly good quality. A dreamy landscape of what appeared to be the Welsh countryside hung on one wall. McGonagall wondered what instinct or trace of memory from her time in Wales had led Celeste to choose that particular print.

"I'll be right out with the tea," said Celeste. "Please make yourself at home." With that she disappeared toward the back of the flat, presumably in the direction of the kitchen. When the young woman turned, McGonagall could see that she had cut her hair; in Snape's memories it had reached to her waist, but now it hung about a hand's-span beneath her shoulders.

There being nothing else to do, McGonagall settled herself in the wing chair, feeling slightly more at home in that than she would have on the couch. It had been some time since she'd been in a Muggle dwelling, but she recognized the television set that perched on top of a low table of dark wood, as well as the stereophonic equipment that sat on a bookshelf on the opposite wall.

Celeste returned, bringing with her a plain tea set of heavy cream-glazed ceramic ware. She poured out for McGonagall, then asked, "Milk? Sugar?"

"One lump of sugar, no milk."

The niceties at length dispensed with, Celeste sat down on the couch and gave McGonagall a piercing look. "It's odd, but I really can't recall you at all, Mrs. McGonagall."

McGonagall took a sip of her tea before replying, "Well, you were very young."

After a moment, Celeste shrugged. "I suppose that must be it -- although I must admit that sometimes I think my memory is going at a very young age. I went in for some tests a while back, but they couldn't find anything wrong."

No doubt an effect of the Obliviation Snape had performed, but of course it was far too early in the conversation for McGonagall to venture such a statement. "Oh, we all have our moments of forgetfulness, I would think." She paused, then added, "And what did bring you to Birmingham? It had seemed as if you were well settled in Manchester."

A strange expression passed over Celeste's face, a mixture of confusion, frustration, and…fear? McGonagall couldn't say for sure, but for whatever reason, the mention of Manchester had stirred up something in the young woman's mind.

Then Celeste raised a hand and said, "Oh, the same tired story, I'm afraid. Relationship gone wrong, nothing much to keep me there. I decided it was time to start over."

McGonagall gave what she hoped was a sympathetic nod. "And so you've been here how long?"

"Just a little more than two years," Celeste replied. "I suppose it doesn't look like much, but I've made a few friends here, and I've managed to scrape along." For a second she looked very tired, but then she summoned a smile. "And what brings you to Birmingham, Mrs. McGonagall?"

A lie had gotten her in the door, but McGonagall knew it was now time for the truth. Why, then, did it feel so difficult to do what must come next? She had faced Death Eaters in the halls of Hogwarts, after all -- how hard could it be to tell this earnest-faced young woman the truth about her past? Didn't she deserve to know the real reason why she had come here to Birmingham.

"You bring me here, as a matter of fact," McGonagall said at last, and reached into the carpet bag she had brought with her. From within she drew out Celeste's red-backed journal. "This is yours, I believe."

Frowning, Celeste took the proffered volume and stared down at it as if she'd never seen it before. "Are you sure?" Brow still creased, she opened the cover and shook her head at the writing on the flyleaf. "'The diary of Celeste Jenkins'? But that's not my name, although…." She trailed off, hand shaking a little as she turned a page. "How odd -- that does look just like my writing!"

"It is yours," McGonagall said gently. "Just as that was your name, up until two years ago, when you were forced to go into hiding."

"Hiding? What on earth are you talking about?" Celeste gave a nervous-sounding laugh and added, "Am I some sort of criminal?"

McGonagall shook her head. "No, my dear, far from it. You will find your side of things in there, if you choose to read it."

"'My side of things'?" Celeste echoed. "What other side is there?"

"The side of someone you once knew," McGonagall replied. "Which is how I came to know that you were here at all. He -- this information was left to me in trust, and I've come to seek you out now so that you may know the truth of things."

Eyes narrowed, Celeste looked back down at the book she held. "'I met the most extraordinary man today,'" she read aloud. "'Mr. Snape'…why does that name sound familiar somehow?"

McGonagall blinked against the stinging moisture she felt gather in her eyes. "Because you once knew him very well…perhaps better than anyone else."

Celeste shut the book with a snap. "I think you had better tell me exactly what is going on."

"Of course." For the first time McGonagall really focused on the thick band of gold, studded with blood-colored garnets, that Celeste wore on the ring finger of her left hand. "But first you will need to remove your ring."

Immediately Celeste's hand curled into a protective fist. "What on earth for? I never take it off -- it's about the only thing my mother left me!"

The denial was to be expected, of course. No doubt Snape had left buried some deep-seated suggestion that the ring could never be removed; it would require more than a simple request to get Celeste to take it off. Still, McGonagall had at least tried the polite way to handle the troublesome artifact.

She murmured, "_Accio_ ring!" and the band of gold slipped off Celeste's fingers, flew through the air, and landed neatly in McGonagall's outstretched palm.

"How did you -- what the devil do you think you're doing?" Celeste demanded, hand already reaching out to reclaim her treasure. Then she paused, and lifted the same hand to her forehead. "What on earth? I feel so odd…."

"What you feel is your powers returning to you."

The young woman managed a shaky laugh. "My powers? I don't have any powers!"

Smiling grimly, McGonagall said, "You don't? Take my hand."

"I really don't -- "

Ignoring Celeste's protests, McGonagall reached out and took the young woman's hand, holding it firmly in her own bony fingers. She recalled Snape's first memory of Celeste, how he had seen her in the bookshop and followed her home, the image clear in her mind as if it had happened to her and not a man now dead.

For a second Celeste sat stock-still, eyes wide. Then she withdrew her hand as if she'd been stung and burst out, "How did you do that? That was a memory of me…and him!"

"I did nothing," McGonagall said calmly. "What you just experienced is known as Legilimency, or the art of reading another's thoughts. It is your greatest gift, that and Divination."

"And the man I saw?"

"Severus Snape, who found you in Manchester, recognized your powers, sought to train you." Very quietly she added, "The man who loved you."

Celeste's lower lip trembled. "I seem to recall something…but it's all so hazy somehow, like bits and pieces of a dream."

"That is because he Obliviated you," McGonagall replied. "Erased your memories, that is. It had to be done, for your safety."

"Obliviate…." Celeste murmured, then shook her head. "That's not even a proper word!"

"It is, in the wizarding world." McGonagall ignored Celeste's lifted eyebrows and went on inexorably, "Because of your gifts you were sought by a dark wizard, a very evil man who wished to use them for his own purposes. Severus hid you away, erased your memories, and gave you that ring -- an artifact which blocks magical ability -- so that you could pass undetected in the Muggle world."

Looking dazed, Celeste lifted her tea and took a large gulp. "What's a Muggle?"

"A person without magical abilities. I know this must have come as a dreadful shock, my dear, but you have the evidence of your own powers to prove the truth of what I'm saying. Could you ever read minds before just now, when I took your ring away?"

"No," Celeste replied slowly, and then her mouth tightened a little. "And I've never seen anyone make a ring jump off a finger like that, although I'm sure there are quite a few pickpockets out there who would like to learn that particular trick."

"Well, then," said McGonagall, thinking that should explain everything.

Celeste set her mug back down on the low table that fronted the couch and asked, "But why now? If I were hidden for such a dreadful reason, why have you come to me now?"

Perhaps it would be better to lead with the good news. "The War is over," McGonagall replied. "The Dark Lord has been defeated, and there is no longer any reason for you to hide yourself away in the Muggle world."

Questions practically started out of Celeste's eyes, and McGonagall dreaded the one she was sure to ask next: _But why have you come, and not Severus, if he was the one who hid me in the first place, the one who loved me?_

Even as the young woman's lips parted to make the inquiry, they were interrupted by probably the last thing McGonagall had expected to hear: the unmistakable wail of a young child.

Immediately Celeste stood. "Nap time's over, I fear." She gave McGonagall a stern look. "Just a moment -- I still have questions I need answered."

_As do I_, McGonagall thought, feeling as if she'd just been hit on the side of the head by a Bludger. But she managed to nod and pick up her own tea as if nothing untoward had just occurred.

Celeste left the room, disappearing down a short hallway that opened off from the front room. A few moments later she returned, holding a squirming child who looked to be a little over a year old. From the blue onesie the child wore, McGonagall guessed it to be a boy. More disconcerting, however, was the shock of black hair that topped the child's head.

"This is Steven," Celeste said. "Say hello to Mrs. McGonagall, Steven."

The child turned curious dark eyes on the Headmistress, who stared back at him almost fearfully. Was it possible?

"He hasn't started talking yet," Celeste went on, "but I know he understands everything I say. I think he's just processing."

McGonagall found her voice. "And his father?"

Celeste gave her a tight little smile. "Well, that's the funny thing, isn't it? My ex, Alex, is down on the birth certificate as Steven's father, but I never asked for any support…mostly because although I couldn't remember being with anyone except Alex, Steven really doesn't look a thing like him. Nor me, actually, although as he's getting older I think he's going to have my nose."

_Thank goodness for that_, McGonagall thought.

"Funny that Severus Snape's hair was black," Celeste commented. "And his eyes dark." For a moment Celeste was still, her lips brushing across the top of the baby's thick hair. "You said he loved me?"

"Very much."

"What happened to him?"

There was no easy way to say it. Her voice flat, McGonagall replied, "He's dead, Celeste."

The young woman's eyes looked suspiciously bright, but her voice was calm enough as she said, "Was it because of the War?"

"Yes." McGonagall cleared her throat. "He was a very brave man, Celeste, one whose bravery was all the greater because he worked in secret, with no hope of glory or recognition. Indeed, it was only after he was gone that we realized how much he had done to save us all from the Dark Lord."

"But not himself."

Not trusting herself to speak, McGonagall could only shake her head. That the boy was his seemed obvious, although she couldn't quite figure out how -- after all, she remembered seeing Snape mix up the contraceptive potions for Celeste in one of his memories.

Celeste crossed back over the couch and sat down, settling her son on her lap. Cradling him with one arm, she reached out with her free hand and picked up the journal once again -- holding it at arm's length, away from Steven's inquisitive fingers -- then flipped through the pages until she got to an entry near the end. A corner of her mouth trembled, but she looked up at McGonagall and said, "Well that explains it."

"What does?"

"The entry from July 12th. I won't read the whole thing, but just this bit…" Celeste frowned at the handwritten page and read aloud, "'Severus has gone, and I am left to wait once again. I know he's told me as much as he could of what's going to happen, but still I know he's holding things back. Well, I have a secret of my own, I suppose. Last night I poured the potion away instead of drinking it. I know it was a foolish thing to do, but I suppose it's just my way of defying the universe. Just this one roll of the dice. It will probably come to nothing, but if we are to be separated, perhaps at least I'll have one thing of his to remember him by, even if I won't consciously realize it.'" She broke off then and dropped the journal onto the couch next to her. "He is Severus' child, isn't he?"

The boy's appearance seemed to confirm that. "I think so, my dear. He does very much resemble him."

Celeste nodded, and bent down and kissed the boy on the cheek very gently. He stared up at her with somber eyes, as if he somehow understood the reason for the sudden display of affection. When the young woman looked up, her face was pale, but McGonagall could see no trace of tears in her eyes. Her voice firm, Celeste asked, "So what happens next?"

* * *

_From the diary of Celeste Jenkins_

August 14, 1998

Once again my life has been turned over, and yet this time I tell myself it is all for the good. Nothing will bring Severus back to me, and nothing will restore Steven's father to him, but at least now I have something to remember, something to cling to as the days and years pass.

Professor McGonagall -- for indeed that was what she was, current Headmistress of Hogwarts -- brought me back to the school so that I might see Severus' memories for myself. And between those recollections and the writings in my journal, I was able to live the story again, although I knew I would never have my own memories of those events fully restored. Little remained of Severus in his private quarters at the school, but I was able to take away a few books, a photograph of a heavy-browed young woman who Professor McGonagall told me was Severus' mother, a magical bookmark. It seemed a pitifully small legacy for so great a man, but it appeared he had been ridding himself of his personal belongings for some time, as if he were aware at some level that his time on this earth was limited. At least I had a few mementos that I could keep, and which one I day I could give to Steven.

Everyone was very kind -- Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey and the tiny little Professor Flitwick and the charming if somewhat overbearing Professor Slughorn. If they were shocked that Severus had managed to leave behind a son, none of them revealed their surprise to me. I was pressed to take up residence in Hogsmeade, so that I might avail myself of all the wizarding world had to offer and which I had been denied for so long. I took rooms in one of the inns there for a time, but I felt out of place, almost as if I were in a foreign country. My powers could not be disputed, and therefore I should have been at ease, but I had lived too long in the nonmagical world. I felt restless, knowing I could not stay there forever.

I had no roots in Birmingham, and at first I thought to return to Manchester, to see if I could reclaim the only home I had truly known. But even though I at length managed to unravel the dreadful tangle the place had gotten into due to back taxes, I realized I didn't really want to live there, either. Since an arcane wizarding test had determined that Steven truly was Severus' heir, he had inherited all of his father's gold at Gringott's, the wizard bank. It's a shocking amount, really, but I suppose a salary can begin to stack up if one doesn't have to worry about paying for one's room and board. I am Steven's trustee, but the interest alone is enough to keep us comfortable, and the proceeds from the sale of my house in Manchester have only served to relieve my last anxiety as to how I would continue to support myself and my son.

In the end, I have decided to return to Wales, to buy a cottage by the sea, where Steven can grow up with the wind and the water, where he can live in the one place where his father had found a small measure of happiness. Every day my heart aches at the thought that I will never see him again, never hear the black-honey drawl of his voice, never feel those robes wrap around me as he holds me in his arms. But I have had plenty of time to get used to being alone…and I'm not truly alone if I have Steven with me. He is my strength, my comfort, my living reminder of the love Severus and I shared. Perhaps one day we can be reunited somewhere beyond the reach of this world. I pray for such a thing each night, and hope that, wherever he is, he can look down and see the wonderful child we created together.

In time the summons to Hogwarts will come, and Steven will take his place with the other children from the wizarding world, to learn all manner of wondrous things that I was denied. I don't begrudge him this -- if not for my parents' discretion, I might not even be alive today -- but I do look forward to hearing of his studies, and hope that he will do well. Perhaps one day he will even take his place among the other professors there, to teach Potions as his father before him once did.

I think Severus would like that….


End file.
